We don’t always set out to build empires.

Sometimes, we just want to feel safe, seen, heard, respected. And in the quiet ache of being overlooked or misunderstood, we start laying bricks. Not with hammers and mortar, but with guarded glances, silent sacrifices, and words we wish we would’ve said but didn’t.

The first bricks are subtle: an accomplishment we post a little louder than necessary, a boundary we disguise as independence, a wound we never name because to name it would mean acknowledging we still bleed.

We cover the cracks in our stories with polish and perfection. We iron the edges of our lives so tightly that there’s no room left for wrinkles or rest. We build walls and call them strength. We rehearse smiles and call it joy. We lead well on the surface while barely holding it together beneath. All the while, secrets settle like dust in the corners we never let anyone see.

I’ve seen it. I’ve done it. I’ve participated in building these kinds of empires, not with malicious intent, but with misplaced motives. I’ve clung to control because letting go felt like freefall. I’ve guarded my truth with a clenched fist, convinced that exposure would mean ruin, not redemption. And in the process, I’ve stood atop my own little tower, breathless and tired, wondering why the view was so lonely.

Because that’s the thing about self-made kingdoms, they’re awfully quiet when the crowd moves on.

What we build to glorify ourselves becomes a prison of performance. What we build to keep secrets safe becomes a fortress that keeps love out, too. We promote our agenda, our image, our curated version of success, but deep down, we know it’s a version, not the real thing. We know we’re still longing to be known beyond the titles, beyond the accolades, beyond the posts that got the most likes.

And eventually, it all starts to shift. The ground beneath us groans. The walls whisper. The things we thought we’d buried begin to surface, because truth always rises and secrets don’t stay buried forever. The empire begins to creak under the weight of everything we never said, everything we avoided, everything we tried to outrun.

Pride is a silent architect, but it’s also a brutal one. It builds tall and fast, but never wide enough to hold grace. And grace? Grace requires space. Space to admit we’re tired. Space to grieve what we’ve lost. Space to let go of what we were never meant to carry.

Scripture says, “Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain” (Psalm 127:1). And I believe that with my whole, weathered heart.

Because there is a kind of holy undoing that happens when the empire falls.

When the applause fades. When the lights go dim. When the curated image begins to crack and the only thing left is the raw, trembling truth of who we are underneath the scaffolding.

And that’s where God meets us.

Not at the top of the tower, but in the rubble. Not when we’re polished, but when we’re undone. He doesn’t hand us new blueprints and demand perfection. He kneels beside us in the dust, lays His hand over ours, and begins to rebuild something softer. Something sacred. Not an empire, but an altar.

One where there’s room for grief and grace. For silence and singing. For small beginnings and steady hope.

Because we were never meant to build monuments to ourselves. We were meant to be living testimonies to His mercy.

So tear it down, friend. Brick by heavy brick. Let the secrets go. Let the light in. Let the walls fall so that truth can rise.

And watch what God can build in the ruins we tried so hard to hide.