Some people light the torch.
Some folks inherit it.
Some look up one day and realize it’s in their hands (and no one else is even pretending to reach for it).

If that’s you, amigo, congratulations.
You’re holding it now.

And, if you’ve held it long enough, you know this: fatigue doesn’t come from carrying it, it comes from not being able to set it down.

From being the one who remembers why the torch actually matters, when everyone else has moved on to the next shiny thing.
From holding the thread while the story keeps getting rewritten, edited and changed over time.
From being responsible not just for being a torch-bearer, but for being the culture carrier, too.

That kind of fatigue doesn’t look like collapse.
It looks like a slow, quiet fade into the background.

You’re still functioning.
Still showing up.
Still doing the right things.

But, you’ve lost a bit of your spark.
You’ve got less margin. Less pep. Less want to.

I work and walk with torch-bearers, and they rarely say this out loud.

And, not just because naming the cost feels risky. But, from the conversation(s) on replay in your head.
If I admit I’m tired, will people panic?
If I tell the truth, will the whole thing fall apart?
If I loosen my grip, will the flame go out and everyone blame me?

So you do what torch carriers do.
You tighten your grip.
You absorb more, and hustle harder.
You tell yourself, “This is just what leadership feels like.”

(Somewhere along the way, suffering became a job requirement).

Let me remind you of something very very important: there’s a huge difference between responsibility and disappearance.

Over time, carrying the torch can quietly train you to confuse endurance with faithfulness.
To believe that if you’re strong enough, present enough, good enough, you won’t need anything back.

That’s when fatigue turns into something more dangerous than exhaustion.
It becomes resignation.

Not dramatic resignation.
Respectable resignation.

You stop expecting joy.
You stop asking what this season is actually asking of you.
You tell yourself, “It is what it is.”

This ultimately comes at a cost.

Being the through-line costs something real.
Being the one who stays costs something real.
Being the first one in and last one out costs something real.

And, if no one helps you name and transform that cost, it doesn’t disappear. It turns inward.

Fatigue isn’t asking, “Can you keep going?”
You already know the answer to that.

The real question is, “At what price?”

Torch-bearers often carry responsibilities that were never explicitly named.
Unspoken expectations.
Inherited obligations.
Agreements that made sense once a long long time ago, and then quietly expired, but no one updated the paperwork.

Those unexamined responsibilities compound like interest.
You don’t feel it day to day.
You feel it ten years in.

One of the most faithful things a torch-bearer can do is pause long enough to ask:
What am I actually accountable for now?
What am I still carrying out of fear, obligation, or guilt?
What would it look like to carry this differently?

Not less faithfully.
Differently.

Every long stewardship has seasons.
Seasons for building and seasons for guarding.
Seasons for expanding and seasons for rest.
Seasons for holding tight and seasons for loosening your grip.

Pushing harder is how good people disappear while still quote-unquote succeeding.

There is courage in naming the season you’re actually in, especially when it doesn’t match the expectations around you.

Sometimes faithfulness means changing the shape of the role so the flame can last.
Sometimes it means inviting others closer, even if they don’t carry it the way you would.
Sometimes it means admitting that the way you’ve been holding it is no longer sustainable.

This isn’t about quitting.
It’s about refusing to vanish inside responsibility.

If you’re tired, it doesn’t mean you’re weak.
It means you’ve been faithful long enough for the weight to register.

The invitation isn’t to drop the torch.
It’s to tell the truth about what it costs you to carry it.

Because the flame does not require your exhaustion to stay lit. And, the work does not need your self-betrayal to endure.

Carry the torch, my friend. Just don’t let it burn the one holding it. That’s not selfish. That’s stewardship, with the lights on.

Because the torch was never meant to test how much you can carry.

It was meant to light the way.

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Steve Knox | Omaha, Nebraska

\\\ Forward and share this with the others in your orbit who need a gentle, loving reminder. Let them know they’re not alone. And, thanks for reading. I hope you re-read this a time or two. Reach out if I can help. Much love. Be honest. Be you.