For as long as I can remember, I have desperately desired to be seen…chosen…picked. I knew deep down I was special. Anyone could see it…right? Could anyone see it? “If not,” I thought, “I’ll just make them see it—they should pick me.”
Of course, according Gen-Z, I’m not fully embracing the definition of a “pick-me girl.” According to my vast research, doom-scrolling through reels (and a quick google search), a “pick-me girl” is one who desperately seeks attention, particularly from males, by setting herself apart as different from other girls because she’s “just one of the guys.” In her attempts to show how different she is, she’ll often put down other girls around her, and then attempt to steal their guys. If you’re having difficulty envisioning it, think of Taylor Swift’s 2008 hit “You Belong With Me.” Yesterday’s cute and quirky is today’s dark and desperate.
However, that’s not me. Once upon a time, I may have put other girls down to make me feel better about myself (behind their backs, of course—I certainly wasn’t brave enough to insult anyone to her face), but I’ve never been even remotely cool or masculine enough to be “just one of the guys.” Nevertheless, I refuse to allow the young folk to entirely commandeer the English language, and I’d like to assert that I was one hundred percent a “pick-me girl” by the mere fact that it was my deepest desire to be “picked,” and my ravenous desperation almost always had the opposite effect.
As a little girl, I had the imagination of young Ralphie from the classic “A Christmas Story” movie. In my mind, I concocted far-fetched scenarios in which people were blinded by my radiance, astounded by my effervescence and grace. Unfortunately, like poor Ralphie, my in-brain screenplays never quite went to plan. Instead, I was just a really weird kid.
At the end-of-year party in second grade, I posed for each group picture in one of the five ballet positions I knew, waiting for the teacher to enthusiastically perceive my elegant poise. Instead, she shouted, “Alissa! Stop doing weird things with your feet!”
On a middle school field trip, I pretended to fall asleep in a convoluted position so my teacher could see how amazingly flexible I was. Instead, I heard, “What is she doing?! Is she asleep? What a strange child.” Unfortunately, by that point, I was too committed to the ruse. I was embarrassed and uncomfortable, but since I was pretending to sleep, I had to stay in my “strange” position. (As a side note, I now know that stunning flexibility is not that amazing; it’s just hypermobility. Now, in my forties, I spend less time trying to astound people than just trying to keep my hips in their respective sockets.)
To make matters worse, around the age of seven, I started to get a little chunky—a social death sentence for a girl in the 80’s and 90’s. It was at that age that an (ironically rather large) doctor plopped down on his little rolly stool and said, “Bounce on over here, Butterball!” Then, while showing me how I overshot whatever chart he was holding, he said, “If you don’t lose weight, by the time you’re sixteen your friends are going to be using you for a beach ball.” Oh how my forty-something year-old self would love to go back in time and punch that doctor in the nose. However, at least in his scenario, if they were using me as a beachball, I got to play…because, obviously, no one was picking me for a team anytime soon.
Fortunately, we moved a lot when I was growing up, which gave me the opportunity to repeatedly reinvent myself—which was necessary. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and my overwhelming need to be picked, noticed, and loved far extended the awkward chunky stage of my tweens and early teens. Nevertheless, by my mid-to-late high school years, I could often pass for someone who was confident and socially adept. I still wasn’t popular by any stretch of the imagination, but, somehow, I managed to do less weird things less often.
At fourteen, I became slightly more socially aware, but I also became aware of a couple other things. First, I noticed some boys might not want to use me for a beach ball, but they definitely wanted to use me for a couple other things. I also became aware of my need for the Lord. Ironically, I failed to understand that the one Man who had chosen me before I was even born was the only man I needed; instead, I tried to get my value by being picked and loved by many of the rest.
However, like any good Baptist girl in the 90’s, I knew the one thing I absolutely must safeguard: my “purity.” I never let things with boys go too far…until. Until I was sixteen, working my first job at a restaurant/bar, and the twenty-two year old DJ showered me with attention. He made me feel like both a grown up and a silly little girl, often only moments apart. Until he’d plied me with green M&Ms* and “Are you sure you’re not ready?” and I watched him become bored with my “childish” resistance—his eyes lingering on his older, more experienced ex-fiancée. Finally, in an attempt to hold a buffoon’s attention, I gave away the only thing I thought I had that made me special to God—and the buffoon ghosted me a couple days later. Instead of being picked, I got plucked.
At that point, I didn’t think I’d lost my salvation, but I was pretty sure God didn’t have much use for me. Furthermore, I knew the girls at youth group would ostracize me if they found out I’d lost my “purity,” so going back was no longer on my agenda. Instead, I filled my time with achieving academic excellence and making more questionable decisions with men. In retrospect, by that point, a number of people saw me as the “special girl” I always desired to be; sadly, I had ceased believing I was ever special at all.
The next year, at seventeen, I graduated with honors and was headed to a local university in the fall with an academic scholarship that covered about half of my tuition. I was going places! Though, as it turned out, not necessarily to the great places I had in mind.
I met my (now) ex-husband that summer before my freshman year, and we began our all-consuming, often tumultuous, sometimes abusive and/or adulterous relationship that would span on-and-off for more than a decade. In 1996, I was an honors graduate, full of promise. Eight years later, I was married and barefoot in a trailer park, pregnant with my third child, and wondering how things had gone so remarkably wrong. One year after that, I watched my five year-old drop to her knees and beg her daddy not to kill himself, while I nursed an arm I thought was broken and my twelve year-old threatened to call the police. The scene is still seared into my vision and brings fresh tears to my eyes.
In my heart and mind, that was the day I was done, though it would take me another five months to get enough money to leave for good. When I finally left, I felt free. I was a broke, single mother of three, but I was free…sort of.
I’d found my way back to church by then. I was actively involved and sang in the choir. I wish I could say I understood my identity as God’s beloved by then, but years of being abused by a man (and my own dumb decisions) left me feeling devoid of worth. On the outside, I still looked like I was confident and socially adept, but inside, all I felt was used and broken. Thus, I continued to make dumb decisions with men that reflected my deficient self-worth…until.
Until two Christians walked into a bar, both internally tattered and torn, and the one with high heels and sore feet asked for a spot at the other’s booth—and he graciously complied. In case you don’t know, God can reach down and meet you anywhere…even in a bar.
The man’s name was Josiah, and I immediately sensed he was different from any other man I’d ever known—gentle, loving, witty, and kind. He was a dream come true. Unfortunately, I was convinced he was also delusional. For reasons I simply could not grasp, he adored me, but, I knew he was just deceived. In my mind, I was nothing but dirty, used, and broken, and I lived in constant fear that he’d soon come to his senses and toss me aside—so, I routinely pushed him away to try to help him realize the error of his ways. Nevertheless, he continued to gently love and pursue me…until. Until, still broken himself, fear seized him, and he became terrified that I’d never actually let him love me—so he left.
My heart was shattered, but little did I know, that was the beginning of the greatest love story of my life. Well…maybe not the beginning of the story, but the beginning of my realization that I was in one.
When Josiah pushed me away, I did what any reasonable woman would do—I called his mother late at night, sobbing hysterically. Fortunately, she was gracious; instead of hanging up on the lunatic, she prayed with me and encouraged me to seek guidance from the Lord. I took her advice to heart, and I sought my Savior like never before. I cried out to Him, and I read His Word. I pleaded for guidance, and finally, after a lot of begging for what I wanted, I relinquished control. I said, “God, I’m ready to submit to Your will. I truly believe Josiah and I were meant for each other, but if it’s not Your will, I don’t want it. If it’s not Your will, I give up. I’d rather have You.” I had tasted a deeper, richer, more fulfilling love than I had ever known. That day, I let Josiah go…until.
Until he couldn’t go twenty-four hours without being mine, and we slowly began to work through all our junk together in the light of Christ and by the power of the Holy Spirit. This year, we celebrated our thirteenth wedding anniversary. He’s a loving step-father to my three oldest children, and we’ve added four more to the bunch. I’m grateful Josiah picked me, but more than that, I’m grateful God let me know first that I was already picked—chosen, beloved.
I love Josiah more than life itself, but my identity isn’t in his love for me. Instead, it’s held firmly in the hands of my Savior. My identity is built on the rock of who He is and how He made me, and that’s the most secure place to be.
Most of the time, Josiah and I are disgustingly happy together, and we wouldn’t want it any other way. Even when we’re not, though, we know where our worth is and what our calling is, and that makes it a lot easier to find our way back to one another.
Moreover, we founded a marriage ministry to help other Christian couples be disgustingly happy, too—but, we do it a little differently than other ministries: we help you walk the same path to true identity that we’ve walked.
We could tell you all about communication and conflict resolution skills (and will, gladly). We could tell you about love and respect, sacrifice and submission (they’re some of our favorite subjects). But that’s not where we start.
We start with a different love story: God’s love for each of us. We tell stories of our own brokenness, shame, and rebellion, and about how God pursued us all along—how He still pursues us. I tell my story of desperately wanting to be chosen, only to finally realize I’d been loved and chosen all along—before the foundations of the world, to be Holy, blameless, and precious in His sight. We help couples know the truth…but knowing is only half the battle.
Once they know it, we help them dig down deep to clean out old lies and insecurities, so they can actually believe spiritually the truth they already know intellectually: they already have all the approval, validation, and forgiveness they’ll ever need. It exists in the love of the Father, the sacrifice of the Son, and the presence of the Holy Spirit.
Finally, once their foundation is solid, we begin to draft a blueprint of the beautiful structure God’s already built. He has designed each person with unique gifts, talents, and passions, and we help them uncover those. However, we also help couples see how God has woven them together—how their unique design fits beautifully with the design of their spouse—and help them uncover the purpose God has for them together.
Now, I’m more confident in my “belovedness” than ever, but it’s also a lesson I’m still learning. Old habits die hard, and every now and then, the little girl who just wants to be picked shows back up, hungry for approval and validation. Sometimes, I’m still ashamed of her overt neediness and the weird things she says and does to get noticed—but most of the time? Most of the time, when she shows up, I just love her because she needs to be reminded that she’s already special and chosen and loved, just the way she is. And so are YOU.
P.S. If you and your spouse want to learn how to trash the lies in your lives, grow closer to one another, and pursue your mutual purpose, join us for our Fundamentally Us Marriage Workshop on October 25th, 2025. For more information or to register, please visit us here.
Alissa is madly in love with Jesus and her husband, Josiah, and her family. She has a passion for learning and teaching God's Word and loves to share about her spiritual walk with anyone willing to listen. She often says her love languages are transparency and vulnerability, and she tries to love others well by sharing her story with authenticity and a little bit of humor. When she's not working in ministry, you can find her homeschooling her kids, dancing in the kitchen with her husband, loving on grandbabies, or working on one of the many hobbies she's hopping between (which often include hand-lettering, watercolor painting, and crocheting).