I found a spot on the wooden bench, my back against the wall, myrrh in the air. The priest stood in his black gown and tall hat. I thought of Seinfeld and my first Orthodox service just a few years ago. How quickly we adapt.

The icons hovered behind him as he began his sermon. He didn't coddle us. He warned us.

The Nativity fast was approaching—forty days without meat or dairy. He urged us to take up the fast, but cautioned that it could be a dangerous weapon.

How could restraint be dangerous?

Because the moment you confuse the practice for the transformation, judgment sneaks in. If I fast enough, I'll be holy. And anyone who doesn't isn't as holy as me.

The ego will turn even our best intentions into a measuring stick.

I listened closely. Acts of piety are new to me, but the trap wasn't. I'd already lived it, just with "habits" instead of holiness.

It's 2021. I sit at my desk, skin tingling from a cold shower, body buzzing from a workout, mind sharpened by meditation and caffeine. I've engineered the perfect morning routine. I feel disciplined. Powerful. Ahead.

And worse than all of that: I feel superior.

Any time someone didn't share my habits, I judged them. If they ate poorly, slept in, or scrolled too much, I interpreted it as weakness. And their weakness irritated me. Why don't you care more? Don't you want to succeed?

But beneath that frustration sat a quieter, more honest question: Why aren't you afraid like me?

My routines weren't rooted in love—they were built on fear. Fear of drifting, fear of being mediocre, fear of not deserving anything good. Discipline became my way to earn worthiness.

So when someone else lived without that fear, I resented it. I envied their ease.

There is a cure for this.

My fear was loudest when I was single. I believed I needed to be extraordinary to be loved. That belief cracked only slowly, after months of mundane, ordinary married life. Forgotten tasks, miscommunications, falling short of goals—each followed by the same surprising response from Anna: "I still love you."

Every time she said it, the whip softened.

I still have my morning routine. I still care about discipline. But it's no longer a performance. It's no longer a shield against inadequacy. I do it because it helps me live well, not because I'm terrified of who I'd be without it.

And when someone else struggles, I'm gentler. Not perfect—just last week, I caught myself watching Anna scroll and felt the same old judgment rise like a reflex. The urge to intervene. To "fix."

I had to remind myself: I'm not her overseer. But I'm also not indifferent. Love isn't passivity; it's discernment.

That night, I gently suggested that journaling first thing might serve her better. She agreed. She even asked me to hide her phone. The next morning she felt great.

And I noticed the difference: Judgment demands compliance. Love offers help.

So as the fast approaches, I think of this priest's warning. I'm hoping it can serve as healing rather than a measuring stick.

I'm hopeful because I can feel the old fear loosening. But I know how quickly the ego sneaks through the back door.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe fasting isn't about proving I'm holy. It's about becoming someone who can hold standards with softness.

I hope to be a little more of this person by the end of these forty days. And if I fall short, at least I'll know what I'm aiming toward.