Or are we just really tired with better skincare routines?
If you’ve been anywhere near the internet (you are now by the way)—or wandered into the self-help aisle at Big W while looking for an air fryer—you’ve seen it.
The Gospel of Self-Help. It’s booming.
It’s in TikToks preaching the theology of “cutting off low-vibe people.” It’s in Pinterest mood boards titled “My Healing Era” (complete with eucalyptus, minimalism, and suspiciously expensive candles). It’s in the self-affirming Instagram captions: You are enough. You are your own home. You are the one you’ve been waiting for. Which is all very moving—until you realise you’re eating last nights’ left overs for dinner.
To be clear: working on yourself is good. Therapy? Great. Boundaries? Necessary. Emotional intelligence? Please, yes. We’re not here to throw shade on growth. But something’s shifted.
What began as helpful tools has ballooned into a full-blown belief system—one where you are the problem and the solution. The coach, the client, the miracle, and the marketing team. The goal is no longer to be loved—it’s to become a never-ending project.
And despite our vision boards, gratitude journals, and highly-optimised morning routines… somehow, we’re still not okay.
According to the American Psychological Association, Gen Z holds the trophy for Most Anxious, Most Depressed, and Most Likely to Cry in Public While Holding an Iced Matcha. We are more emotionally literate than ever, but lonelier and constantly outworking our existential dread on Instagram reels. We speak fluent self-help, yet we’re still fumbling around when it comes to actual healing. We’re optimising everything—except maybe our souls.
“There’s this cultural obsession with controlling the inner world—our thoughts, habits, emotions,” says Sharon Hodde Miller, author of The Cost of Control. “But it becomes this exhausting, never-ending pursuit of fixing ourselves, without really knowing what wholeness even looks like.”
And it’s not just coming from wellness influencers in linen pants. Churches have hopped on the bandwagon too—just with more Bible verses and slightly less turmeric. Sermons sound like TED Talks: Seven Steps to Peace. Crushing Anxiety for Good. Jesus as Your Life Coach™.
It’s easy to walk away thinking the Messiah came to improve your morning routine.
But Jesus didn’t die to give us better time-blocking techniques. He didn’t offer grace so we could become more “productive.” The gospel is fundamentally different from self-help. It doesn’t say “You got this.” It says “You don’t—and that’s okay.”
Now, “surrender” isn’t exactly trending. It won’t get you brand deals. It doesn’t sound empowering. It sounds like giving up—and in a culture that thinks “doing everything yourself while looking flawless” is the goal, that’s scandalous.
But here’s the thing: eventually, we all run out of energy, affirmations, and lavender oil. And when we do—what’s left?
Hopefully, something more than a shelf full of pastel-toned paperbacks promising enlightenment in 30 days or your money back.
“Self-help says, ‘You are the answer,’” says Christian psychiatrist Dr. Curt Thompson. “But Christianity says, ‘You are deeply loved—and you need others, and you need God.’ It’s not as sexy, but it’s a whole lot more freeing.”
Admitting we can’t save ourselves isn’t easy. Especially when culture treats dependence like a moral failure. But grace was never about earning your way to worthiness. It was about a God who walks into your mess, sits down, and says, “I’m not leaving.”
The real gospel doesn’t shame you for being broken. It doesn’t ask you to hustle your way into being loveable. It meets you right where you are: exhausted, trying, unsure. And it gives you rest—not because your self-care checklist is complete, but because God’s love never required your performance.
This doesn’t mean we give up on growth. It just means we stop using it to prove we’re enough. You already are. Not because a TikTok therapist said so, but because Jesus did.
So yes—go to therapy. Hydrate. Block the toxic ex. Get the nap. But maybe also ask: What’s the story underneath all this striving? Is it setting me free—or just keeping me busy?
The Gospel doesn’t demand your “best self.” It welcomes your real self. The one who is loved, limited, wildly human—and finally at peace with not needing to be the hero of the story.
That role’s been filled. Spoiler alert: it’s not you.
