By Cathie Ostapchuk

By the third week of Lent, the surface disciplines begin to give way to something deeper.

The first week we acknowledged our limits. The second week we named the wilderness. But by now, if we’ve been even slightly honest, we start to notice the interior currents - the beliefs we’ve been carrying for years that quietly shape how we lead, how we show up, how we measure ourselves.

Over the years of sitting with women leaders - in retreats, in coaching spaces, in small circles where the guard comes down - I’ve noticed something consistent.

We are not just carrying responsibilities. We are carrying narratives.

Some of them were handed to us explicitly.
Others were absorbed without our consent.

And Lent has a way of exposing them, not harshly, but gently - simply by slowing us down enough to hear what’s actually running through our minds.

For many of us, it sounds something like this:

As a woman, I always thought I had to prove I belonged in the room —
now I am learning that calling is not something I earn; it is something I receive.

As a woman, I always thought that if I worked hard enough, the insecurity would finally quiet —
now I know that insecurity is not solved by output, but by rooted identity.

As a woman, I always thought that being agreeable would keep things smooth —
now I know that clarity, even when it costs me, creates deeper peace.

As a woman, I always thought that feeling like an imposter meant I shouldn’t be here —
now I see that stretching often feels like fraudulence before it feels like strength.

As a woman, I always thought I had to carry the emotional temperature of every room —
now I am learning I can be present without absorbing what is not mine.

These are not theoretical ideas. They are battles. They are lived experiences. They are the quiet negotiations many women make every day in leadership spaces.

And here is where Lent becomes transformative.

Because Lent is not simply about giving something up;

it is about allowing what has shaped us to be examined in the presence of Christ.

What are you beholding each day?

Comparison?
Scarcity?
The subtle accusation that you are behind?

Or are you beholding the steady, unhurried Christ who did not strive for legitimacy because He already knew who He was?

Rituals matter here. Small ones.

Perhaps this week, before you open your email or step into your first meeting, you pause. You place your hand over your heart and name the script that is trying to run the day. And then you ask, slowly:

Jesus, what is true?

Not once. But daily.

This is how formation happens. Not through one dramatic breakthrough, but through repeated reorientation. Through choosing, again and again, what you will behold.