There was a season of my life where I learned how to smile while I was breaking.
From the outside, I could still show up. Still function. Still do what needed to be done.
But internally, I was carrying pain I didn’t have language for.
As a teenager, I went through things that stretched my emotional capacity in ways no kid should have to endure—
abuse, betrayal, loneliness, the kind of hurt that makes you wonder if anyone is coming. I didn’t know then that God was
building something in me: the ability to sit in pain without turning away.
Later, that “ability” became survival.
I learned how to numb.
How to push forward.
How to pretend.
Until life cornered me.
Right before my separation, I hit a moment on the floor that I will never forget. I wasn’t being dramatic. I wasn’t seeking
attention. I was done. I was ready to end my life, convinced my kids would be better off without a mother who felt like
this. I was planning it—until someone saw me. Not perfectly. Just enough to ask the question: “Are you okay?”
And God held me.
What happened after that wasn’t instant.
It was a year where everything I used to lean on got stripped away. The things I used to numb with stopped working. The
“crutches” got taken—not because God was cruel, but because He was committed. I had nowhere to go but Him.
And that’s where I met Jesus for real.
Not the idea of Him.
Not the version you perform.
The real Jesus—who tells the truth, restores identity, and brings you back to life.
I learned what it means to exchange lies for truth. I learned how fear hides. I learned the weight of forgiveness. I learned
how spiritual and emotional worlds connect. I learned how to breathe again.
Now I do for others what I once prayed someone would do for me:
I don’t look away.
I sit with you.
And I walk you into freedom that lasts.