My RSVP to Yet Another Pity Party (and Why Nobody Showed Up)

Some mornings I don’t just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I wake up on the wrong side of faith. That’s when I throw myself a pity party—balloons, sad confetti, and the world’s worst playlist. And guess what? Nobody shows up. Turns out self-pity is the loneliest kind of rager.

Celebrate Recovery Step Four says: “We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” If I applied that to my pity parties, I’d have a whole notebook titled “The Events Nobody Attended.” Entry #47: “Tuesday, cried over my own Instagram feed.” Entry #86: “Thursday, compared myself to everyone else in my small group and declared myself the loser.” Spoiler alert: I’ve been the only one on the guest list every single time.

And here’s the thing—on pity party days, I cannot wear my Celebrate Recovery shirt. Nope. Because the second you put that shirt on, it screams: “I’m on the road to recovery, I’m following the steps, my testimony is thriving, and I’ve got victory on speed dial.” Meanwhile, I’m sulking in aisle three over the price of cereal. Wearing your CR shirt to a pity party is like wearing a marathon T-shirt through the Taco Bell drive-thru—it just doesn’t match the vibe.

My sponsor recently hit me with some wisdom too. I was spiraling about a situation that hadn’t even happened yet, rehearsing the loss before it was real. She looked at me and said: “Don’t grieve something you haven’t lost yet.” Ouch. Conviction served straight up, no chaser. But she’s right—why am I mourning something God hasn’t even taken away? It’s like sending flowers to a funeral that isn’t scheduled.

And let’s talk about the Israelites. I used to make fun of them. “Seriously, you whined about manna? God was literally raining down carbs from heaven!” And yet, here I am—modern-day Israelite, wandering in circles, complaining about my Starbucks order, while God is still faithfully providing. Apparently, I inherited their grumbling gene.

Then there’s David. Oh, I’ve rolled my eyes at his mess. Bathsheba? Really, dude? Numbering the people when God said not to? Running hot and cold like a broken thermostat? But if I’m honest, I’m not that different. My pity parties look a lot like David’s psalms—the sad ones. At least he had the guts to write his feelings down instead of sulking on the couch with stale Doritos.

And can we be real? Sometimes in my pity party, I feel like the red-headed stepchild of the Kingdom. Like everyone else is God’s favorite and I’m over here hoping He remembers my name. But then Romans 8:16 taps me on the shoulder: “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.”

No caveats. No fine print that says “except the sulky ones” or “except the ones who’ve thrown 97 pity parties this year.” Just straight-up children of God.

Psalm 42:5 hits me hard too: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him.”

Translation? “Stop RSVPing to that pity party and remember who the real Host is.”

Here’s the truth: pity parties are exhausting. Praise parties are restoring. One leaves me empty; the other fills me with hope. God’s in the business of taking our “woe is me” playlist and swapping it for a “God’s got this” anthem.

Prayer: Lord, forgive me for mocking the Israelites while camping out in my own desert of complaints. Forgive me for judging David while starring in my own messy psalm. Thank You for loving me even when I feel like the red-headed stepchild in Your Kingdom. Teach me to quit grieving things I haven’t lost, trade my pity parties for praise parties, and remember that no matter how many wrong turns I take, You never revoke my RSVP to Your table. Amen.

Thanks for letting me share.

Dawn