Mercy, Not Sacrifice—And Why I Bought the Hummus

I stood in the prepared foods aisle yesterday, holding a container of store-bought hummus like it was evidence in a trial I was losing.

The old rulebook was loud in my head: You know how to make this. You have tahini at home. This costs three times what the ingredients cost. What kind of person pays $4.99 for something that takes ten minutes to make?

But there was another voice—quieter, gentler—whispering something I'm still learning to hear: What kind of person punishes herself by going without, all because buying feels too easy?

I bought the hummus.

When the Doctor Said Something That Changed Everything

This moment took me back to a conversation I had with my daughter's pediatrician years ago. She was going through a particularly picky eating phase, and I was stressed about her nutrition—tracking every bite, worried about every meal she refused.

The doctor looked at me with kind eyes and said, "Mom, stressed eating is worse than imperfect eating. If you're anxious about food, she will be too. Sometimes the best thing you can do for her health is to relax yours."

I worked so hard to protect her peace after that. I learned to let go of the homemade everything. I bought the chicken nuggets without shame. I chose her emotional safety over my need to do it "right."

But somehow, I never extended that same mercy to myself.

The Hidden Cost of Getting It Right

Here's what I didn't realize then: there's an exhaustion that comes with relentless self-denial that goes far beyond food. It's the exhaustion of shopping only sales, of never taking shortcuts, of doing everything the hard way because the hard way feels more virtuous.

It's meal planning every Sunday and feeling guilty when you order pizza on Thursday. It's making your own cleaning supplies and feeling like a failure when you grab the store-bought kind—if you even allow yourself to do that (like I never did). It's performing life instead of living it—and wondering why you feel so tired all the time.

I had been sacrificing my peace on the altar of doing things right. And the truth is, it was making me smaller, not stronger.

The 80/20 That Saved My Sanity

Years ago, when I was drowning in the perfectionism of early motherhood, I discovered the 80/20 principle: if you get it right 80% of the time, the other 20% won't matter. It saved my sanity then—and I'm choosing to re-embrace it now.

Maybe the hummus isn't just "good enough." Maybe it's wise.

Maybe choosing ease 20% of the time isn't settling. Maybe it's creating space for what actually matters—like having energy left over to enjoy the people you're feeding, or the capacity to be present instead of perpetually preparing.

The Scripture That Cracked Me Open

There's a line in Matthew that stopped me in my tracks when I first heard it in the context of burnout: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice."

Jesus spoke these words to religious leaders who had made relationship with God into a performance—a series of rules and rituals that left people exhausted instead of renewed. They had confused the hard way with the holy way.

This was the very line that shifted my understanding of burnout and self-compassion. What if God wasn't asking me to prove my devotion through endless effort? What if mercy—toward others and myself—was actually more sacred than sacrifice?

What if the hummus was a small act of stewardship, not selfishness?

A Gentle Invitation

Sweet friend, I wonder: where are you making life harder than it needs to be? Where are you choosing sacrifice when mercy might serve you—and everyone around you—better?

Maybe it's buying the pre-cut vegetables. Maybe it's hiring someone to clean your house. Maybe it's letting your teenager heat up a frozen meal instead of cooking from scratch on the night you have nothing left to give.

What if you extended that mercy to yourself, right here in the messy, ordinary choices of Tuesday? What heavy rule could you trade for a little more ease?

Permission to Exhale

There's no list here. No steps to follow. No pressure to change everything at once.

Just this: permission to exhale. Permission to choose the path that leaves you with energy for what matters most. Permission to buy the hummus—and to trust that mercy, not sacrifice, might be exactly what your weary heart needs.

Sometimes the most radical act of faith is cutting yourself a break.

If this stirred something in you, hold onto it—and follow it here.

P.S. Buy the hummus. Buy the rotisserie chicken. Buy the pre-cut vegetables. A false sense of virtue isn't worth suffering for. You deserve to enjoy the things you love without having to earn them through exhaustion.