If You’ve Ever Been Told You’re Too Much

I’m deeply grateful for Kendall Mariah and her courageous, compassionate voice,  as she writes with both honesty and hope, reminding us that the fire within us was never meant to be extinguished, but refined. In her debut book, This Little Fire of Mine, she names what so many of us have experienced but struggled to articulate: the holy friction that arises when our lived experience collides with easy answers. If you’ve ever felt like you were “too much,” or wondered whether your questions made you less faithful instead of more human, —- I hope you’ll read & discover that the very discomfort you’ve been trying to quiet is actually guiding you toward something truer, deeper, and more alive. It’s a joy to welcome Kendall to the farm’s table today…

Guest post by Kendall Mariah

I  was one of those little girls with fire in my spirit— the kind of fire that made my Sunday school teachers sigh and exchange knowing glances, the kind that had my mama saying, “Lord, help us,” every time I opened my mouth.

I was bold, unapologetic, and completely unfiltered, asking questions that made grown-ups shift in their seats and offering up my opinions like they were just as good as the preacher’s sermon.

“That song wasn’t a metaphor to me; it was a marching order. “

When I first learned “This Little Light of Mine,” I didn’t just sing it—­ I believed it, deep down in my bones.

That song wasn’t a metaphor to me; it was a marching order.

Singing it made me feel bold and confident. I was not about to let anyone snuff out my light, and I was sure as heck never going to hide it under a bushel—­ no, sir.

My little light was meant to shine, and I figured the brighter, the better.

But somewhere along the way, that fire started to feel like too much for the world around me. 

I was a high-­achieving, gold-­star-chasing, rule-following kind of kid, and I learned pretty quickly that people liked me best when I kept my fire controlled—­ like a decorative scented candle instead of a roaring bonfire, better to be seen than to be felt.

They praised my passion when it was used for the right things—­ leading Bible studies, making straight A’s, a reliable Sunday school student, you know, being a good little church girl—­ but if I ever spoke up in a way that made people uncomfortable, well, that was a different story.

I was encouraged—­ subtly, then not-­so-­ subtly—­ to soften my edges, to shrink myself just enough so I didn’t upset the delicate balance of things. In a strange way, I realized it was okay to lead the boat, but don’t dare rock it.

That’s when I started to feel it—­ the internal tingle, the pressure building, manifesting in heat that would crawl up the back of my neck, the tension between what I should say and what I needed to say.

I felt it when I heard things in church that didn’t sit right with me but knew I wasn’t supposed to question. I felt it when I saw people hurting and wanted to speak up but worried about the consequences. I felt it when I saw “good Christian people” say and do things that didn’t line up with the fruit of the Spirit I had learned as a child. I felt it every time I swallowed my words instead of letting them spill out in all their fiery, inconvenient truth.

I started calling it soul friction.

Soul friction is that holy discomfort—­ the uneasiness that settles in your spirit when you know something isn’t right but aren’t sure what to do about it.

” I’ve come to believe soul friction is one of the most important parts of spiritual growth. Because if we never let ourselves wrestle, never let ourselves question, never let ourselves feel the heat of that friction, how do we ever expect to be refined? Renewed? Redeemed?“

It’s that season of wrestling, where you have more questions than answers, where the things you thought were set in stone start to shift beneath your feet. It’s the moment when your tidy, black-­and-­white understanding of the world is suddenly splashed with color, and you realize that maybe things aren’t as simple as you once believed. You realize that the world can no longer be simply categorized, and you begin to uncover nuance and discover shifts of perspectives.

And let me tell you—­ when soul friction sets in, you feel it.

It can feel like your stomach has flipped upside down, because what do you mean, I could be wrong? I didn’t see the whole picture or know the whole truth?

But I’ve come to believe soul friction is one of the most important parts of spiritual growth. Because if we never let ourselves wrestle, never let ourselves question, never let ourselves feel the heat of that friction, how do we ever expect to be refined? Renewed? Redeemed?

We all experience soul friction. It’s a sign that we’re growing, that we’re engaging with the world in a way that forces us to wrestle and reckon with what we thought we knew. We live in a time when information is everywhere, where stories collide, and perspectives challenge us. Staying in an echo chamber is impossible unless we choose to put our heads in the sand.

And when that friction comes knocking? It’s a choice. You can ignore it. Pretend you didn’t hear it. Push it down and keep quiet.

Or, you can let it guide you.

It’s not always earth-shattering moments; sometimes it’s little moments and questions that add up like sparks turning into a flame and starting a fire.

You have to make a choice: Are you going to let that fire burn it all down?

Or do you want to let that flame help refine your faith and cultivate a bolder and brighter faith?

I want you to learn how to trust your soul friction— that little tingle in your spirit, that slow burn in your chest, that unsettled feeling that whispers, Something about this isn’t sitting right. I want you to stop brushing it off, stop second-­guessing yourself, and stop shrinking back just because it would be easier and make others more comfortable to stay quiet.

See, I spent too many years trying to ignore that friction. I’d feel it stir inside me when someone said something that didn’t line up with the Jesus I knew—­ the one who sat with the outcasts, who defended the broken, who flipped tables when the religious folks put power over people. I’d feel it when I saw good-­ hearted people getting pushed to the margins, when I heard truth twisted into something cold and condemning, when I knew deep down that love was being used as a weapon instead of a refuge.

But instead of trusting that friction, I swallowed it.

I pushed it down, told myself I was imagining things, convinced myself that rocking the boat would only make things worse. I believed the lie of “who would listen to me anyway?” I thought maybe if I just prayed more, stayed in my lane, and focused on my own little corner of the world, the tension in my spirit would go away.

“That holy discomfort? That’s the Spirit nudging you toward something deeper—­ toward a richer faith that isn’t afraid of hard questions, toward a love that is wider and wilder than you ever imagined, toward a courage that doesn’t just sit still but moves in the direction of truth.“

But that’s not how it works; soul friction doesn’t just disappear. No, friend, it lingers. It simmers. It refuses to be ignored. And eventually, if you let it, it does something miraculous.

It leads you.

Because that friction? That holy discomfort? That’s the Spirit nudging you toward something deeper—­ toward a richer faith that isn’t afraid of hard questions, toward a love that is wider and wilder than you ever imagined, toward a courage that doesn’t just sit still but moves in the direction of truth.

I want you to trust that friction, not fear it.

I want you to lean in when something stirs in your soul, to listen when your spirit is unsettled, to ask the hard questions even when you don’t know where they’ll lead.

Because I believe with everything in me that when you do, you won’t lose your faith—­ you’ll find a deeper, truer version of it.

One that isn’t built on fear but on fire.

One that doesn’t just settle for comfort but seeks out truth.

Adapted from This Little Fire of Mine by Kendall Mariah. Copyright © 2026 by Kendall Mariah. Used by permission of Thomas Nelson.

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