I felt invincible. My strength was that of a giant. God was

Hear the fiery declaration of Carry Nation, warrior of the temperance cause and scourge of the saloon: “I felt invincible. My strength was that of a giant. God was certainly standing by me. I smashed five saloons with rocks before I ever took a hatchet.” These words blaze with the conviction of a woman who believed herself chosen for a holy mission. They are not the calm musings of reflection, but the thunder of a spirit aflame with faith and righteous fury. In them we see the union of human passion with divine conviction, and how such a union can shake the very pillars of society.

Carry Nation lived in an age when alcohol was destroying families, impoverishing workers, and leaving women and children destitute. She had known this ruin herself, for her first husband had been broken by drink, and she bore the scars of watching his decline. Out of this personal grief was born her crusade, a crusade she believed commanded by God Himself. When she says she felt invincible, it was not mere pride—it was the unyielding certainty that she was not fighting alone, but with heaven at her side.

Her strength was not measured by her stature, for she was but one woman against entire establishments. Her strength was in her faith, her courage, and her refusal to remain silent. With rocks in her hands, and later the hatchet that became her symbol, she entered the dens of vice, smashing bottles, mirrors, and bar tops, scattering liquor to the floor. To some, she was madness embodied; to others, she was a prophetess, fearless and uncompromising. The image of one woman striking down saloons with only her hands and her fury became a legend, a living parable of what conviction can accomplish.

Consider, O seeker, that history has often turned on such moments of unyielding conviction. Joan of Arc, a peasant girl, led armies because she believed God was standing by her. Gandhi defied empires armed only with truth and fasting. Rosa Parks, by refusing to stand on a bus, set in motion a revolution of civil rights. Carry Nation belongs to this lineage—not because her methods were gentle, but because her will was immovable. Where others feared ridicule or failure, she acted, believing that her cause was greater than her reputation or even her life.

Yet her words carry a lesson beyond her crusade. The feeling of being invincible, the sense that one carries the strength of a giant, comes not from weapons or numbers, but from alignment with one’s deepest conviction. When the heart and the spirit are united with a purpose that transcends the self, ordinary mortals perform deeds that echo like legends. The rocks in her hands were not mighty by themselves; it was her belief that made them mighty.

But we must also see the danger of such conviction, for strength without wisdom can become destruction. Carry Nation’s actions stirred both admiration and anger; some saw her as liberator, others as fanatic. The lesson, then, is not merely to act with conviction, but to ensure that our conviction is bound to justice, compassion, and the uplifting of others. Righteous strength must build as well as break.

Therefore, let this teaching be yours: find your cause, find your conviction, and stand as if God Himself were standing by you. When you walk with such faith, you too will feel invincible. But wield your strength not recklessly, but with purpose, as a tool to destroy what enslaves and to build what gives life. For true invincibility is not in smashing alone, but in creating a world where what was once broken can be restored.

Thus is the legacy of Carry Nation: that even one person, armed with faith and fierce strength, can challenge the might of an entire culture. Let her story remind you that courage is not reserved for the powerful, but for the willing. And when conviction and strength walk together, they awaken a force that no saloon, no empire, no injustice can long withstand.