It was a simple question, asked in a quiet moment, without pressure or performance attached.

One of my pastors looked at me and said, “How do you think I’m coming across in the day-to-day? Am I approachable? Do I feel accessible? Does what I bring into the room actually feel helpful?”

He wasn’t defensive. He wasn’t looking for reassurance. He genuinely wanted to know.

And I remember feeling the weight of that moment, because honest questions deserve honest answers. It would have been easy to soften it, to keep things comfortable, to protect him from anything that might sting. But growth rarely happens inside comfort.

So, I told him the truth.

Most days, he felt busy. Not unkind. Not dismissive. Not distant on purpose. Just busy. So busy that conversations felt efficient but not always open. So busy that it was hard to know if there was space for anything outside of the next task. There wasn’t tension in the room — just a steady undercurrent of hurry.

And hurry has a tone.

To be clear, he is a fantastic leader. He carries more than most people see. He loves the mission. He loves the people. He has integrity, strength, and wisdom. But somewhere along the way, the weight he was carrying began shaping the way he was showing up.

I don’t think he realized it. I don’t think it was intentional. I think he was surprised — not wounded, just unaware.

And that conversation stayed with me long after it ended.

Because it forced me to turn the question inward.

If someone answered that same question about me, what would they say?

We all carry a lot.

Ministry is layered. Meetings, preparation, follow-up, budgets, staffing decisions, crisis calls, planning sessions, vision casting, family responsibilities — it all matters. Each task feels important, and often it is.

But tasks are never more important than people.

Somewhere along the way, it becomes easy to believe that if we just work harder, prepare better, read more, and lead stronger, we will quiet the tension we feel inside. We can out-work many people. We can out-study, out-minister, and out-strategize a lot of rooms.

But we cannot manufacture what only connection produces.

The 2:6 Life

That is why the 2:6 life keeps resurfacing in my heart — especially as we step into 2026. It almost feels poetic. 2:6 in ’26. A reminder that this year is not about doing more for God, but about living with Him the way Jesus did.

“If anyone claims to live in Him, they must live as Jesus did.” (1 John 2:6)

If we are going to live like Jesus lived, then we have to pay attention to how He lived.

Jesus carried enormous responsibility, yet He was never frantic. He was intentional without being hurried. He noticed people in the margins. He allowed interruptions. He withdrew regularly to pray. He protected His time with the Father even when crowds were waiting. He was fully present in conversations. He was interruptible. He was steady.

Leadership carries invisible weight.

When I think about that simple question — “How am I coming across?” — I cannot separate it from this truth. The way we come across is often a reflection of what we are rooted in.

If we are constantly rushing, constantly responding, constantly managing, that internal state eventually shapes our tone. What feels like leadership strength can slowly turn into relational distance. And often, it is not a character issue. It is depletion.

Leadership carries invisible weight — constant decisions, relational tensions, the responsibility of influence, the gap between vision and reality. We absorb concerns. We filter conflict. We manage expectations. We make hundreds of small decisions that ripple outward.

But when that weight is carried without reflection or release, it begins shaping the culture around us.

People may not be able to name it, but they feel it.

This is where we have to look deeper.

The fruit of the Spirit is not hustle. It is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Those qualities are not produced by grit. They grow where there is connection. They flourish when we remember that God is not an add-on to our leadership, but the life within it — not Someone we visit in moments of need, but the One shaping our everyday responses.

When we drift from that reality, we begin leading from strain instead of surrender. We may still accomplish much. We may still hit goals and carry vision forward. But slowly, the tone shifts. Love feels thinner. Joy feels forced. Patience wears down. Gentleness gets replaced with urgency. Self-control becomes a reaction.

The fruit of the Spirit isn’t something we try to incorporate into leadership; it is what begins to show up when our leadership grows out of our relationship with God. When our lives remain intertwined with Him — not compartmentalized, not reserved for certain moments, but woven through everything — those qualities begin shaping how we enter rooms. They steady us before we speak. They soften us before we correct. They anchor us before we decide.

And slowly, without pressure or performance, a culture begins to grow — one where loving people well is not a strategy, but simply the way we live.

Our first ministry has a last name.

Before we are pastors, directors, or leaders, we are husbands and wives. We are mothers and fathers. We are sons and daughters. We belong to someone outside the church walls, and those relationships were entrusted to us long before a platform or position ever was. When the people who share our table consistently experience our fatigue instead of our presence, it is worth pausing. Not with guilt, but with honesty.

Sometimes leadership doesn’t fall apart. It simply drifts. The mission expands. Responsibility increases. Opportunities multiply. And somewhere in the process, we normalize a pace that Jesus never modeled.

Prayer is not preparation for leadership. It is participation with God in leadership.

When we slow down long enough to pray before walking into the building, when we ask the Holy Spirit to steady our hearts before we attempt to steady the room, when we release what is not ours to carry and build margin instead of worshiping productivity, something shifts. We begin leading from communion instead of compulsion. We begin noticing people again. We become interruptible. We create space.

When one of my pastors asked how he was coming across, I respected him more, not less. His willingness to ask created room for growth. It reminded me that humility is not weakness; it is wisdom. And it challenged me to consider whether I have the same courage to ask and listen.

What would happen if we invited that kind of feedback into our own lives? If we asked our teams, our volunteers, or even our families how we feel in the room, would we be open to hearing the answer? And if their response revealed hurry, distance, or tension, would we be willing to adjust?

Leadership will always carry weight. That weight is not the problem; it is part of the responsibility. But weight carried without reflection becomes strain. Weight carried with prayer, community, and healthy rhythms becomes stewardship.

We do not need to prove ourselves through pace.

We need to lead from communion, not compulsion — from the steady love of God instead of the pressure to perform. We need to live from the same place Jesus lived: connected to the Father, unhurried in presence, faithful in love.

And maybe that simple question is not just where it begins.

Maybe it is the invitation.

Tish Striegel has served passionately in children’s ministry for over 25 years and currently serves as the Children’s Pastor at Hill City Church in Southern Indiana, a suburb of Louisville, KY. A proud graduate of the inaugural KidMin Academy class of 2016, Tish is also an engaging author and advocate for children’s and family ministry. Her warm approach and creativity inspire others to discover their own potential, often over a good cup of coffee.