Where do you go when you feel low, empty, spent? When you feel beaten down by your circumstances or just by your day?

At nine months pregnant with our second child, I experience moodiness and exhaustion as norms in my life now. But of course, I have plenty of non-pregnancy-related experience in feeling down too. We all do; we're human. And as women, we often experience our emotions fairly close to the surface - accentuated by a host of hormonal shifts that we encounter throughout much of our lives.

I've found that there are two contrasting responses that I and others often adopt when feeling empty or low - equally unhelpful and both, ultimately, of the Enemy.

1. The first response is self-pity. We feel sorry for ourselves. We lament our circumstances, our feelings, or the person or situation we believe is causing our distress. We compare ourselves to others we know and find our own situations wanting.

This response reflects the general mindset of modern Americans, bombarded with the lie that we should feel content and fulfilled at all times. If we don't then something is wrong, and someone else is probably responsible - partly or fully. We hoped for more; things should be better than they are? Ergo, we are victims.

We adopt this false line of thinking with amazing frequency and power, even as Christians with a completely contrasting worldview. Subtly or implicitly, we condemn God: How could he have let this happen to us if he loves us? Or how could we feel so empty and low if he is truly good and sovereign? We become accusers and wallow in self-righteousness.

2. The second response is to talk ourselves out of the way we feel. We know God is good; we know we should be grateful for all he's done for us and our many blessings; we know many in the world have situations far worse than ours. Who are we to be upset about something as petty as feeling distant from our spouse (for example) when there are thousands of children starving to death in developing countries?

On its face, this response seems godlier than the first as it plays at selflessness. The problem is that it's dishonest. God is a God of truth, and acting as if our situation or emotions didn't exist dishonors him and does violence to our own souls. God created us as emotional beings, and he is not glorified when we try to pretend away our feelings - even the ugly ones. Worse, this response robs us of the opportunity to engage with God and to hear from him in the midst of whatever we are experiencing. How can he help us work through our feelings to something holy and righteous if we won't let him shine light into our hearts?

The most helpful advice I've gleaned on this topic is from Elisabeth Elliot in her book A Path Through Suffering. A definition of suffering, she writes, that "covers all sorts of trouble, great or small, is this: having what you don't want, or wanting what you don't have." I love this realism and practicality. So often we deny ourselves the opportunity for God to meet us in our suffering by forbidding ourselves to acknowledge that we are actually suffering - even if it is "small trouble" rather than great, as Elliot would say.

Too, this definition paves a middle road between self-pity and denial straight to God's heart. We acknowledge and name our "trouble," don't shy away from calling it a form of suffering, and then let God minister to us in that place. After all, when Jesus said, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest," he did say all you who are weary and burdened. He knows the legitimacy of our 21st-century-American forms of weariness and burden; we don't have to convince him.

I think this is critical for us as women leaders. Those we lead are watching us to see how we will handle our challenges. Will we become complainers, letting our hurts conquer us? Or will we pretend it away? Only by acknowledging the places of our suffering, to ourselves and to others, can we go to Jesus to gain the rest he promises. The hurting, watching world is desperate to see evidence of the rest that is found only in Jesus.