There are parts of this story I never imagined telling. Not because I was ashamed, but because I didn’t know I had permission.
But healing has a way of handing you the mic when your voice comes back online. And mine did—quietly, steadily—on a back porch that became a sanctuary when church walls made me wince.
It started with a neuromuscular therapy massage three weeks ago. Something shifted. Something broke loose in my body, and God used that crack in the armor to let truth in. Not a lightning bolt—but a slow, burning fire that hasn’t stopped since.
I’ve been on a healing path for over 25 years. Books. Retreats. Journals full of prayers and pain. Nine months of trauma therapy that walked me into the darkest corners of my story and didn’t let me leave until I saw what was hiding there. I gave that journey everything I had.
And yet, these past few days have cracked me open in a way nothing else has.
I didn’t experience a euphoric awakening. I labored through it. I wept. I shook. I screamed into towels so the neighbors wouldn’t call the cops. Not for minutes. For hours. Days. And I kept going.
I had to grieve what I missed.
Go back and find the pieces of me I left behind to survive.
Feel what I’d been taught to numb.
Say out loud what I thought I’d carry to my grave.
And when I reached for plant medicine, initially to relieve the pain in my arm, I had no idea God would use it to reach the pain in my soul. I didn’t take it to heal, I took it to endure. To make it through the days without crying from the physical agony. But He met me there too.
Because He always does.
He used that quiet space to whisper truth into me. He showed me that the secrets I kept weren’t just burdens—they were battle plans. That I wasn’t supposed to keep the peace—I was born to make peace, even if it meant war first. That the shame I carried wasn’t mine to begin with. And that I wasn’t too much. I was made for more.
But nothing shifted until I gave myself permission.
To feel.
To speak.
To see myself clearly, past the roles, the expectations, the pain.
And when I did?
I saw her.
The woman God made.
The one who is still standing, soft but unshakable.
Not perfect. But present.
I don’t idolize the process. I honor it because it’s holy ground.
Not because I did everything right, but because God met me even when I was too tired to keep trying.
He met me on my porch.
In the middle of the mess.
In the silence, I thought meant abandonment.
And now I know the truth:
The crushing didn’t break me. It revealed me.
And she is worthy of being seen.