Survivor Speaks Truth

Tag: Freedom

  • Call it what it is: Abuse is Sin

    There’s a tendency in our world — and even within the church — to soften or spiritualize what God calls sin. We wrap it in excuses, justify it with nice-sounding words, or hide it behind phrases like, “They’re just broken,” “They had a rough childhood,” or “Nobody’s perfect.” But abuse, in any form — emotional, physical, spiritual, or sexual — is not just brokenness. It’s not just trauma. It’s not just a misunderstanding. Abuse is sin.

    It is a willful act that violates the heart of God. It’s rooted in pride, control, deception, and a thirst for power — the things Scripture warns against. And when we refuse to call it what it is, when we minimize it or cover it with religious language, we not only protect the abuser but we also keep the victim bound. You cannot heal from something you won’t name. You cannot find freedom in what you continue to justify. And you cannot move forward while pretending something sinful was merely “a mistake.”

    Jesus never avoided naming sin. He didn’t do it to shame, but to liberate. He confronted sin because only truth can lead to redemption. “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). That verse isn’t about superficial honesty — it’s about deep, soul-level truth. The kind that shines light on the darkest corners and brings healing to places that have long been hidden.

    Healing doesn’t happen in denial. You can’t heal a wound you refuse to expose to light. You can journal, pray, and read Scripture every day, but if you keep calling abuse something less than what it was, you will never fully heal. God cannot heal what you continue to hide. Naming it — calling it what it is — is the beginning of your freedom. It’s not bitterness; it’s truth. It’s not vengeance; it’s alignment with God’s heart for justice and righteousness.

    Truth and grace are not opposites; they coexist perfectly in the person of Jesus Christ. He is full of grace and truth. Grace does not mean pretending sin didn’t happen. Grace means facing, grieving, and allowing God to redeem it without letting it define you. Calling abuse sin doesn’t make you judgmental — it makes you honest. And honesty is where healing begins.

    Many victims have been told to forgive and forget, to turn the other cheek, to “be the bigger person.” But forgiveness was never meant to be a free pass for unrepentant sin. God’s forgiveness always follows repentance — a true turning away from wrongdoing. When abuse is justified or hidden, it creates a false peace, not the peace of Christ. There is nothing godly about silence that protects sin. There is nothing holy about pretending.

    When we name abuse for what it is and stand in truth rather than confusion, we begin to strip away the power it once held. The enemy works in secrecy. He thrives in the shadows of silence and shame. But when truth enters the room, darkness trembles. What was hidden loses its hold. What once controlled you no longer can.

    If you have survived abuse, please hear this: You did not cause it. You did not deserve it. And it was not your fault. The sin belongs to the one who committed it, not the one who endured it. God grieves with you. He saw every tear, every moment of fear, every time you questioned your worth. And He is not calling you to cover it up — He is calling you to truth, because truth leads to freedom.

    It’s okay to say, “This was wrong.” It’s okay to say, “That was sin.” You are not dishonouring anyone by being honest about what happened. You are honouring God by standing in His light. The truth doesn’t destroy you — it restores you. Because only what is brought into the light can be healed.

    So, call it what it is. Don’t water it down. Don’t excuse it. Don’t carry the weight that doesn’t belong to you. Abuse is sin, and sin must be brought into the light. And when it is, God will meet you there — not with condemnation, but with compassion, and freedom.

    The truth sets you free.

  • The Weight of 2,364 Days

    Today is a special day for me that carries the weight of what was lost and the quiet victory of what was survived. It’s the anniversary of the day my court case was finalized. I lived many lifetimes within those years, but this date will forever mark the day I could finally exhale — the day I could begin to heal without constantly looking over my shoulder.

    Surviving domestic violence is hard enough. But surviving the system — the secondary trauma of courtrooms, endless delays, and being forced to relive your abuse under the scrutiny of strangers — is something no one can prepare you for. It is not justice that feels like healing; it’s justice that often feels like another battle you never asked for.

    From the first filing to the final judgment, our case remained before the court for 2,364 days — more than six years of waiting, hoping, and enduring. It wasn’t 2,364 days spent inside a courtroom, but 2,364 days of uncertainty. Days that blurred together in paperwork, hearings, and prayers. These days tested every ounce of faith and resilience my children and I had left.

    Court was not a place of comfort for us — it was a battlefield dressed in suits and silence. While we were supposed to be finding safety, we were forced to sit in rooms that made us relive every wound. The system that was meant to protect often failed to recognize the complexity of coercive control, manipulation, and post-separation abuse. My children and I were not just testifying about the past — we were surviving the ongoing tactics of someone who wanted to keep control, even through the legal process.

    I watched my children grow up inside that waiting period — robbed of the simplicity of childhood because they were carrying truths far too heavy for their years. We spent birthdays, holidays, and milestones with the shadow of court dates hanging over us. But even in those years, we found light. We built strength we didn’t know we had. We clung to faith when everything else was uncertain.

    When the final decision came, I didn’t celebrate with confetti or champagne. I sat silently and let the tears fall — not because we won, but because we endured. We were still standing. God had carried us through the valley when we couldn’t walk alone.

    It’s been years since that chapter closed, but every time this date comes around, I remember the woman who kept showing up — for her children, for the truth, for the life God promised on the other side of suffering. I look back not with bitterness, but with gratitude — not for what we went through, but for what it created in us. And while those 2,364 days tested us beyond measure, they also refined us.

    They taught me that healing is not a single moment — it’s a journey of countless steps of faith, courage, and perseverance.

    To anyone still in the middle of that storm: I see you. I know the ache of waiting for justice that seems so far away. Hold on. Keep praying. Keep believing that truth prevails, even when it feels buried beneath bureaucracy and lies. One day, you’ll reach the other side too — and that day will be yours to reclaim.

    Two thousand three hundred sixty-four days later, we were set free.