We’ve all heard the metaphor: mountaintops are where God is, valleys are where we struggle. But what if we’ve had that backwards?
In Scripture—and in a lot of church sermons—the valley is often painted as the low point, the place of shadows and uncertainty. But here’s the thing: the most dangerous mountain in the world has a 32 percent mortality rate. The most dangerous valley? About 0.00034 percent. The mountain may feel impressive, but the valley is where people actually survive—and thrive.
Contrary to all the poetic language, the valley isn’t a pit stop on the way to something better. It’s not just the backdrop to your breakdown. It might be the very place your soul gets fed.
And no, this isn’t about geography. You can’t book a flight to “the valley.” You also can’t always see when you’ve entered it. But you know when you’re in it—because something shifts. You’re no longer striving to perform or impress. You’re forced to slow down. To pay attention. To let go of the things you thought were holding you up, only to realize they were weighing you down.
The valley is a mindset. And it’s not about finishing the hustle or powering through burnout. It’s about becoming. It’s where you can actually hear God—because it’s quiet enough to listen.
When I was constantly chasing something—more music, more influence, more approval—I wasn’t really connected to anything. Relationships became transactional. Intimacy became surface-level or, honestly, just physical. I was too drained to go deeper. I wasn’t trying to fall into shallow connection. I just didn’t have the capacity for anything more.
That’s the thing about the mountain: it takes everything from you. It demands your energy, your attention, your drive. And if you’re not careful, you’ll confuse that output for progress.
But the valley? The valley restores.
Throughout history, people didn’t build civilizations at the top of mountains—they built them in the valleys. Why? Water, food, shelter, connection. The valleys had what people needed to live. Not just survive, but actually live.
Spiritually, the same thing applies. When you’re in the valley, you’re more likely to notice the presence of God—not because he wasn’t with you on the mountain, but because you finally slowed down long enough to recognize him. Like David wrote in Psalm 139:8, “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”
God is with us everywhere. But awareness? That comes easier when the noise quiets down.
In the valley, you get back in touch with the basics: real conversation, real rest, real food for your soul. It’s where you remember how to breathe. It’s where you stop performing and start healing.
And it’s safer, too.
Up on the mountain, one wrong move can feel like a freefall. The pressure to always get it right—whether in your faith, your relationships or your career—can be paralyzing. I spent years worried about missteps: the wrong song, the wrong move, the wrong person. And the higher I climbed, the harder the fall felt.
But in the valley, the ground is stable. There’s grace. There’s margin to be human. There’s permission to confess, process and rebuild—without the crushing fear that one mistake will undo everything. The valley is where God meets the weary with rest (Matthew 11:28). It’s where shame gets replaced with honesty. Where striving gives way to surrender.
And sure, maybe you’re not breaking new records or scaling new heights in the valley. Maybe things feel slow. But that doesn’t mean they’re meaningless.
Sometimes, the most sacred work happens in seasons that feel quiet. Not because you’re doing more, but because you’re finally becoming whole. The valley isn’t punishment. It’s preparation. It’s peace. It’s life.
Jesus said he came so we could have life—and have it abundantly (John 10:10). The mountain might show off, but the valley sustains. The climb can wait. For now, maybe what you need most is what’s already at your feet.
