For most of my life, I carried invisible wounds. Childhood trauma left deep marks–emotional, physical, and spiritual–that I didn’t know how to face. I learned to survive by pretending everything was fine, but inside, I was unraveling.
To dull the pain, I turned to anything that could distract me from it. Food became comfort, alcohol became escape and relationships became my way of feeling seen. I kept searching for something to fill the ache, never realizing what I was truly longing for was peace–the kind only Jesus could bring.
Then came the night my soul broke open. It was the darkest night I had ever known; the kind where even your own heartbeat feels painful. I sat alone, surrounded by silence, holding a handful of pills, and whispered “I just wanted to go home… wherever home was.” I truly believed everyone would be better off without a shattered mess like me. The pain inside felt unbearable, I was ready to let go.
And then, in that stillness, something sacred happened. It wasn’t a voice or a vision; just a quiet, undeniable presence that filled the room like light breaking through smoke: “I’m not done with you.”
Those words stopped me cold. I fell to the floor, sobbing, realizing that Jesus hadn’t left me. He had been there all along, waiting for me in the ashes. Jesus didn’t demand that I be better, He didn’t ask for perfection. He simply poured love into every place I thought was beyond repair.
That night became my beginning. Healing came slowly; through surrender, forgiveness, and learning to walk with Him day by day. Jesus didn’t just save me; He transformed me. And now, when I meet others walking through their own ruins, I recognize that same look of desperation. I offer what He offered me: presence, patience and love.
The night I thought would end my story became the one that rewrote it because Jesus met me there, and His love hasn’t stopped redeeming since.
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