Survivor Speaks Truth

Tag: Healing

  • Finding Peace When Others Don’t Know the Full Story

    One of the hardest but most freeing lessons in healing is learning to be at peace even when other people don’t know the full story of what you endured. Not everyone will understand your choices. Not everyone will hear your side of the story. And some people will come to their own conclusions based on assumptions, fragments, or secondhand information.

    That reality can feel deeply unfair.

    There is a natural desire to be understood—to explain, correct the narrative, or clarify. Especially when you’ve been hurt, misrepresented, or unfairly judged, silence can feel like agreement. But over time, many come to realize that telling their story to the wrong audience often brings more harm than healing. Not everyone is capable of holding the truth with care.

    Peace doesn’t come from convincing others. It comes from knowing what is true.

    There is a quiet strength in no longer needing external validation to confirm your reality. When you have done the hard work of facing what you endured, naming it honestly, and choosing healing, other people’s conclusions lose their power. Their opinions may still sting, but they no longer define you.

    It’s important to understand that people often form conclusions to protect their own comfort. Sitting with someone else’s injustice, pain, or trauma can be unsettling. Simple narratives feel safer than complex truths. When others misunderstand you, it is not always a failure of your communication—it is often a limitation of their capacity.

    Choosing peace does not mean pretending the misunderstanding doesn’t hurt. It means refusing to live in a constant state of defense. It means releasing the exhausting need to explain yourself to people who have already decided what they believe. Peace comes when you accept that not everyone is entitled to your story.

    There is also wisdom in discernment—knowing who deserves access to your truth. Some people listen to understand, and others listen to judge. Protecting your peace means sharing your story only in spaces where it will be honoured, not dissected.

    Being at peace in the face of misunderstanding is not weakness. It is a sign of deep healing. It means you trust yourself. You trust your lived experience. And you trust that truth does not require universal agreement to remain true.

    You can move forward with integrity even when others misunderstand you. You can heal without being believed by everyone. And you can live fully without correcting every false narrative.

    Peace comes when you stop carrying the burden of being understood by those who were never meant to walk with you.

  • The Emotional Weight of the Holidays: When Joy and Grief Coexist

    The holidays are often described as the happiest time of the year—but for many, they are emotionally complex, heavy, and even painful. While the world emphasizes celebration, togetherness, and cheer, countless people quietly navigate grief, loneliness, anxiety, exhaustion, or unresolved trauma during this season.

    If your emotions feel heightened or conflicting during the holidays, there is nothing wrong with you. The holidays have a way of touching every tender place in the heart.

    Why Emotions Intensify During the Holidays

    Holidays disrupt routines and stir memories. They bring people together who may not feel safe in the same space. They highlight what has been lost, what never was, and what we wish could be different.

    For some, the holidays magnify:

    • Grief for loved ones who are no longer here
    • Longing for relationships that ended or never existed
    • Tension within families
    • Financial stress and unmet expectations
    • Trauma connected to past holidays
    • Loneliness in the midst of crowds

    The nervous system doesn’t understand calendars or traditions—it responds to memories, patterns, and perceived threats. If past holidays were marked by loss, conflict, or harm, the body remembers, even when the mind wants to “just enjoy the season.”

    When Joy Feels Forced

    Many people feel pressure to perform happiness during the holidays. Smiles are expected. Gratitude is demanded. Discomfort is minimized with phrases like “at least…” or “you should be thankful.”

    But emotional honesty matters.

    Joy cannot be forced, and pretending often creates more exhaustion than relief. It is possible to love parts of the season and still struggle with it. It is possible to feel grateful and broken at the same time. Holding mixed emotions does not mean you are unfaithful, ungrateful, or failing—it means you are human.

    The Impact of Trauma on Holiday Emotions

    For those who have experienced trauma—primarily relational or domestic trauma—the holidays can feel particularly overwhelming. Increased social obligations, sensory overload, disrupted schedules, and family dynamics can activate old survival responses.

    You may notice:

    • Irritability or emotional numbness
    • Heightened anxiety or hypervigilance
    • Fatigue that feels deeper than usual
    • Guilt for not feeling joyful
    • A desire to withdraw or isolate

    These responses are not weaknesses. They are signals from a nervous system that once had to protect you.

    Grief That Has No Timeline

    Grief doesn’t respect seasons or schedules. It doesn’t fade because lights are hung or music plays. The holidays often sharpen grief because they remind us of who is missing, what has changed, and what will never be the same.

    Whether you are grieving a loved one, a relationship, your health, your safety, or a version of life you hoped for—your grief is valid. You are allowed to feel it without rushing yourself toward healing or closure.

    Making Space for What You Feel

    The goal during the holidays does not have to be happiness. Sometimes the goal is gentleness.

    It may look like:

    • Setting boundaries around gatherings
    • Choosing rest over obligation
    • Creating new traditions or letting old ones go
    • Spending time in nature or quiet reflection
    • Permitting yourself to feel without fixing

    There is no right way to do the holidays—only the way that protects your well-being.

    Faith, Emotions, and Permission to Be Honest

    Faith does not require emotional denial. Scripture is filled with lament, grief, questions, and heartfelt cries. God is not offended by our sadness or confusion. He meets us in it.

    Peace does not always mean feeling calm—it often means feeling safe enough to be real.

    If the Holidays Are Hard This Year

    If you’re struggling, you are not alone—and you are not broken. This season can be heavy, especially for those who carry invisible wounds.

    You don’t have to force joy. You don’t have to explain your feelings. You don’t have to meet anyone else’s expectations.

    Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do during the holidays is to honour what you feel and take care of yourself with compassion.

    Healing is not measured by how cheerful you appear—but by how gently you treat yourself when things feel hard.

  • When Old Wounds Echo: Why Triggers Can Return Long After the Trauma Ends

    Triggers can show up months or even years after abuse has ended, and when they do, many survivors wonder, “Does this mean I haven’t healed?” What’s so painful about these moments is how unexpected they can be—you might be living your life, feeling stronger than ever, and suddenly something small pulls you back to a feeling you thought you left behind. But the truth is that triggers appearing long after the fact are not a sign of failure but a sign of being human. They are a reminder that your body lived through something intense and real. Healing is not the absence of triggers—it’s the ability to respond differently to them. It’s the ability to notice the fear rising without being consumed by it, to feel the memory surface without being swallowed whole.

    Trauma doesn’t disappear on a schedule; it lingers in the body, stored in the nervous system, waiting for something familiar—a date, memory, smell, or tone —to wake it up. And these “wake-ups” often happen in the very seasons where life has finally quieted down, when your nervous system has enough safety to let old memories rise. This doesn’t mean you’re going backwards. It simply means your body is still releasing what it had to hold onto for far too long. It means your nervous system is reacting to something that once signalled danger, and that is a normal, biological response, not a personal flaw. It’s your body’s way of saying, “I remember this,” even while your mind already knows, “I’m not in danger anymore.”

    During abuse, you lived in survival mode. Hypervigilance became instinct, anticipating moods became necessary, and shrinking yourself became a way to stay safe. These weren’t choices—they were protective reflexes developed under pressure. You learned to read the slightest shift in tone, the smallest change in behaviour, because your safety depended on it. When the danger finally ends, your body doesn’t instantly recalibrate; it slowly unlearns what it once had to rely on. That unlearning can take time. Sometimes it happens quietly, and other times it surfaces through triggers that seem to come out of nowhere.

    So when a trigger surfaces, it’s not a sign of unhealed trauma; it’s an invitation to comfort a part of you that was never comforted before. It’s a chance to offer the compassion, safety, and reassurance your past self never received. Often, triggers rise because you are finally safe enough for your body to process what it couldn’t process in survival mode. The body releases pain slowly, in layers, only as you have the strength to hold it. In that sense, the presence of a trigger can actually be a sign of progress—your system trusts that you can handle what once felt unbearable.

    Your healing is reflected not in whether triggers appear, but in how you respond to them. Perhaps the sting is still there, but now that you recognize what’s happening, you can ground yourself, seek support, and know you’re safe. You pause instead of panicking. You breathe instead of breaking. You speak truth over yourself instead of shame. That is healing, growth, and evidence of how far you’ve come.

    Faith adds a final layer of peace, reminding you that God never leaves you alone in the moments when old wounds echo. When something surfaces, He meets you there—not with judgment, but with gentleness. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” reminding us that His nearness doesn’t disappear just because the trauma has ended. He remains close in the remembering, in the unravelling, in the reprocessing, and in the restoration.

    So no, being triggered does not mean you haven’t healed. It means you’re healing in layers, tending to wounds you weren’t allowed to grow to before, and becoming whole step by step. It means you are strong enough to feel what once overwhelmed you. You’re not regressing. You’re human—and you’re healing. And every time you face a trigger with awareness, compassion, and faith, you take another step toward the freedom you’ve been working hard to reclaim.

  • A Message of Hope for Every Survivor

    There are chapters of my life I never expected to walk through—chapters I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Abuse leaves marks that the eye cannot see, and it sends your soul into terrain you never imagined you’d have to navigate. There were days when breathing felt like a battle, when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain, and when I wondered if the pain would ever loosen its grip on my life. But even in those darkest days, when the world felt silent and God felt far away, something sacred was happening: He was redeeming my story in ways I couldn’t yet see. I didn’t know it then, but every step I took—whether trembling, crawling, or barely moving at all—was leading me into a future God had already written with hope, purpose, and restoration.

    Survivors often hear, “You’re so strong,” but strength rarely feels like strength when you are fighting to hold yourself together. What carried me wasn’t my own power; it was God’s steady hand on my life when everything else was falling apart. He saw every tear I cried behind closed doors. He heard every prayer whispered from a heart that felt shattered. He caught every piece of me that was breaking—and gently began putting me back together. Pain didn’t disqualify me. Trauma didn’t destroy me. It actually became the soil where new strength, new identity, and new purpose began to grow.

    I’ve walked through days so dark that it felt like the sun might never rise. Abuse tries to convince you that your story is over, that you’re too broken, too damaged, too lost ever to be whole again. But abuse does not have the final say. God does. And God is a Redeemer. He takes what was meant to destroy you and uses it to build you stronger. He takes what was supposed to silence you and turns it into a testimony. He takes every lie spoken over you and replaces it with dignity, identity, and truth. Where others saw weakness, God saw a warrior. Where others tried to oppress, God prepared to elevate. Where others tried to erase your worth, God wrote it into eternity.

    I’ve lived through moments that should have crushed me. I’ve endured things that still bring tears to my eyes when I think about them. But here’s the truth: I am still standing. I am still healing. I am still rising. Not because of who harmed me, but because of who holds me. Every time I thought I’d reached the end, God whispered, “This is where I begin.” Every time I felt abandoned, He reminded me, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” Every time I questioned my future, He said, “I am making all things new.” And He is—not just in my life, but in yours, too.

    If you are reading this and you feel like the darkness is still thick around you, if you feel like you’ve lost too much, or you’ve been hurt too deeply, if you wonder whether restoration is possible for someone like you, hear me: God is not done. The pages of your story are still turning. The healing you long for is still unfolding. The redemption you can’t yet see is already in motion. What others used to break you, God will use to bless you. What tried to destroy you will become the very testimony that sets others free. What felt like the end will become the beginning of something beautiful, something you never imagined was possible.

    There is hope for you. There is healing for you. There is joy ahead for you. Whether your steps are steady or trembling, keep going. Whether your voice is strong or quiet, keep speaking. Whether your faith feels certain or fragile, keep holding on. Because God is not just redeeming my story—He’s redeeming yours, too. And the same God who brought me through every valley, every battle, every storm, is walking with you right now. You are not forgotten. You are not forsaken. And you are not too broken to be made whole again. Your best chapters have yet to be written.

  • Silence Protects the Abuser, Not the Survivor

    Silence is often mistaken for peace, but for a survivor, silence is something entirely different. It is the place you retreat to when speaking feels dangerous. It is the space you hide in because telling the truth has never been met with safety. People on the outside don’t understand this—they wonder why you didn’t say something sooner, why you stayed, why you kept quiet. But they don’t realize that silence is not chosen lightly. It is shaped by conditioning, experience, fear, and by the knowledge of what happens when the truth threatens someone who lives behind a mask. Abusers cultivate silence. They depend on it the way a fire depends on oxygen. They groom you to downplay the harm, keep secrets, and question your own reality. They convince you that no one will believe you, that speaking up will make things worse, that you’re too dramatic, too emotional, misremembering, that you are overreacting, or too sensitive. They rely on your empathy, your loyalty, your desire to “keep the peace,” your hope that the good moments mean something. They weaponize your love. They twist logic, Scripture, or your words until you wonder if maybe staying quiet is easier than being destroyed. Silence becomes the price you pay to avoid punishment.

    But silence never protects the survivor—it protects the abuser. It keeps their reputation intact. It allows their lies to stand unchallenged. It preserves the image they’ve curated for the world: the charming spouse, the devoted parent, the respected professional, the person who could “never” do what you’re saying they did. Silence hides the truth that would expose the cruelty happening behind closed doors. And while you carry the weight of wounds you didn’t cause, they walk freely, confident that your silence will shield them from the consequences of their actions. That is how abuse survives—not because survivors are weak, but because abusers are strategic. They understand that their greatest threat is your voice. They know that if you ever speak, the illusion they rely on begins to crack. So they keep you quiet through fear, gaslighting, manipulation, shame, and spiritual distortion. They condition you to believe that your silence is necessary, noble, godly, or protective, but it isn’t. Silence is the cage they build around you.

    Yet something powerful happens when a survivor finally decides to speak. The moment the words leave your lips, even if your voice trembles, the darkness loses its grip. The truth begins to breathe. You feel the weight shift, not because everything becomes easy, but because the burden is no longer carried in secret. Speaking up does not create destruction—abuse does. Telling the truth does not divide families—abuse does. Naming the harm does not ruin reputations—abuse does. Survivors do not speak to punish. They speak to stop generational cycles, heal, protect their children, and reclaim the part of themselves that learned, for far too long, that their voice didn’t matter. And with every truth spoken, another layer of shame falls away. People may still choose to believe the lie. Some will prefer the illusion. Some will take the easy narrative rather than confront the real one. That is the cost of honesty in a world that idolizes appearances. But even then, your voice matters. Because silence protects the abuser, but truth protects the survivor. And once you step into truth, even if it costs you relationships, comfort, or approval, you step into freedom. You step into clarity. You step into the life you were meant to live before someone convinced you that hiding was safer than being heard. Silence may have protected them, but it will not protect them forever. There comes a day when the truth rises—in a whisper, sometimes in a roar—but either way, it rises. And when it does, you realize that your voice was never the danger. Your silence was. And choosing to speak is the moment everything begins to change—not because the past disappears, but because you finally refuse to carry it alone.

  • Cognitive Dissonance: The War Between Heart and Mind

    Cognitive dissonance is one of the most tormenting psychological effects of abuse — the invisible tug-of-war inside your mind that makes you question your own reality. It’s the tension between what you feel and know, the mental chaos of trying to reconcile love with harm, and hope with truth. For survivors, it’s not simply confusion — it’s survival.

    Abuse often begins with affection, connection, and the illusion of safety. The person who will later hurt you first studies you — learning your dreams, fears, and vulnerabilities. They mirror your values, speak your language, and convince you that you’ve finally found someone who understands you. When the cruelty begins — the demeaning comments, gaslighting, and manipulation — your mind refuses to accept it at face value. It clings to the version of them who once made you feel safe, seen, and special. You tell yourself they didn’t mean it, they’re stressed, or they’ll change. You remember the good days like lifelines, hoping they’ll come back. That’s cognitive dissonance — your brain trying to bridge the impossible gap between who they pretend to be and who they truly are.

    It’s not weakness. It’s wiring. The brain naturally seeks harmony between beliefs and experiences. When something doesn’t make sense — like “they love me” and “they’re hurting me” coexisting — the mind will do anything to restore order, even if it means rewriting the truth. It’s safer to believe the abuse is your fault than to accept that the person you love is intentionally harming you. It’s less painful to hope they’ll change than to face that they won’t. This is why victims stay. This is how trauma bonds form — through cycles of punishment and reward, cruelty followed by crumbs of affection that feel like proof of love.

    Abusers exploit this confusion masterfully. They use intermittent reinforcement — one moment cold, the next kind — training your nervous system to crave their approval. You start apologizing for things you didn’t do, shrinking smaller, trying harder, and walking on eggshells. You believe that if you can love them right, the good version will return. The truth is that version never existed. It was a carefully constructed mask designed to keep you hooked. But when you realize it, you’re already entangled in a web of fear, self-doubt, and shame.

    Even after you leave, cognitive dissonance doesn’t fade overnight. In fact, it can intensify. You may find yourself defending them, missing them, or second-guessing your own memories. You’ll replay conversations, wondering if you exaggerated or misunderstood. You might even feel guilty for leaving. These conflicting emotions can make you feel crazy, but you’re not. You’re detoxing from manipulation — from a distorted reality that rewired your brain to question itself. Healing requires confronting those contradictions head-on.

    Freedom begins when you allow both truths to coexist: I loved them, and they hurt me. You can grieve the person you thought they were without denying the abuse that happened. You can honour your love without excusing their cruelty. Healing is not about forgetting the good moments but remembering the whole picture — the context, the cost, and the pattern. The brain slowly relearns that truth, even when painful, brings peace, while illusion always brings chaos.

    Recovery from cognitive dissonance is like reassembling a shattered mirror. You pick up each piece of truth and place it back where it belongs. You replace fantasy with facts, guilt with grace, and confusion with clarity. It’s painful at first because your mind must unlearn the lies that once made you feel safe. But as clarity comes, the fog lifts. You start to see the abuser’s tactics for what they were — manipulation, not love. Control, not care. Performance, not partnership.

    Healing involves more than understanding what happened intellectually; it requires retraining your body and mind to trust truth again. Writing things down helps anchor reality when your mind romanticizes the past. Therapy, trauma-informed support, and community with other survivors can help you name what you experienced and remind you that you’re not alone. Most importantly, self-compassion is crucial. You stayed because your heart was hopeful. After all, your empathy was used against you, because your love was real — even if theirs wasn’t.

    Cognitive dissonance dissolves not through force but through truth spoken gently, again and again, until your mind and heart finally agree. You begin to see that peace doesn’t come from pretending it wasn’t that bad, but from admitting it was. And yet, here you are. Still standing, healing and learning to trust yourself again.

    The truth may hurt, but it also heals. The lies kept you bound; the truth will set you free. And in time, you will realize that clarity — even when it breaks your heart — is the most merciful gift you could ever give yourself.

  • You Don’t Get to Judge a Story You’ve Never Lived

    Some people have a lot to say about lives they’ve never lived. They offer opinions on struggles they’ve never faced, pass judgment on choices they’ve never had to make, and speak confidently about paths they’ve never walked. It’s easy to form conclusions from the outside looking in. It’s easy to believe you would have handled things differently when your world isn’t crumbling beneath you. It’s easy to cast judgment when you’ve never been controlled, degraded, gaslit, or made to question your own sanity by someone who claimed to love you. But until you’ve lived it, you don’t understand the layers of fear, manipulation, and trauma that shape a survivor’s every decision. You don’t get to judge a story you’ve never lived.

    Abuse rarely begins as abuse. It starts with affection, charm, and promises. It begins with a person who seems attentive, genuine, and loving. Over time, the subtle changes start—a minor criticism disguised as concern, a raised voice dismissed as stress, an invasion of privacy justified as love. Bit by bit, the abuser rewrites reality. The victim adapts to survive, excusing behaviour that would once have been unacceptable, hoping love will somehow be enough to fix what’s broken. By the time the fog begins to clear, they’re already caught in a web of confusion, fear, and dependency. And then the world dares to ask, “Why didn’t you just leave?”

    Leaving isn’t a simple act of walking away. It’s a process of disentangling, reclaiming, and unlearning. It’s rebuilding an identity that’s been systematically dismantled. It’s risking safety, financial stability, reputation, and sometimes even life itself. Abusers don’t simply let go. They manipulate, threaten, stalk, smear, and exploit every vulnerability. Survival requires courage that most people cannot comprehend. So when someone says, “I would’ve never let that happen to me,” they say, “I don’t understand what it’s like to be trapped in fear.”

    When outsiders speak without understanding, they reinforce shame. They invalidate experiences they can’t fathom. They echo the very words abusers use to keep victims silent: No one will believe you. It’s your fault. You’re overreacting. Judgment keeps people trapped. Compassion helps them find their way out. The world doesn’t need more critics—it needs more listeners.

    Trauma doesn’t just live in the mind; it lives in the body. It changes how the brain processes information, how the nervous system responds to safety and threat, and how trust and love are understood. This is why survivors sometimes appear inconsistent, emotional, or hesitant. They’re not “unstable.” They’re healing from invisible wounds. So before you label someone’s pain as drama or weakness, remember: you have no idea what battles they fight behind closed doors.

    If you’ve never had to plan an escape in the middle of the night, if you’ve never hidden bruises—emotional or physical—behind a forced smile, if you’ve never feared for your children’s safety or questioned your own reality because of someone else’s manipulation, then thank God for that mercy. But don’t use your comfort as a weapon against those who haven’t been as fortunate. Use it as a reminder to extend grace. To hold space for those who are still finding their way out. To believe victims even when their stories sound unbelievable—because abuse always does until it happens to you.

    Every survivor carries scars, but those scars tell a story of strength, not shame. They are evidence of someone who endured what was meant to destroy them and lived to tell the truth. They prove that light can still break through even in the darkest places. When we choose empathy over judgment, we help that light grow.

    To the ones still living in fear: this isn’t your fault. You didn’t cause it or deserve it, and you don’t have to stay. You deserve safety. You deserve peace. You deserve a life where love is kind, not cruel; where home feels safe, not suffocating. Healing won’t happen overnight, but it will happen. Step by step, day by day, you’ll begin to remember who you are. And that person—the one beneath the fear and the pain—is worth fighting for.

    So the next time you’re tempted to comment on someone else’s story, remember that you’re seeing only fragments of a life you’ve never lived. There’s so much you don’t know and pain you can’t see. Be gentle with your words and generous with your grace. Because at the end of the day, none of us are called to judge—we’re called to love.

  • When Survival Has Left You Exhausted: Rest for the Weary Soul

    You are not lazy, stuck, or unmotivated. You are exhausted. There is a difference. After years of living in survival mode, your body and mind are simply tired. You’ve been running on adrenaline, holding yourself together through crisis after crisis, managing emotions that were never yours to carry, and trying to protect yourself and those you love. That kind of living takes everything out of you. It’s not that you lack drive or purpose—you’ve been in fight-or-flight for so long that your body has forgotten what peace feels like.

    The Bible says, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) Those words aren’t just an invitation—they are a promise. God knows the toll that trauma takes. He sees the nights you lie awake replaying memories you wish you could forget. He knows the weight you’ve been carrying—the anxiety, fear, grief—and He’s not asking you to push harder. He’s asking you to rest. Not the kind of rest that comes from a nap or a weekend off, but the soul-deep rest that only He can give.

    When you’ve spent years surviving, slowing down feels wrong. Stillness can feel unsafe, even foreign. You’ve trained your body to stay alert, read every tone, and anticipate danger before it comes. Then, when the chaos finally ends, your system doesn’t automatically know you’re safe. It keeps scanning for threats, and you wonder why you can’t seem to focus, feel unmotivated, or cry for no reason. This isn’t weakness—it’s your nervous system recalibrating after years of living on edge.

    The world glorifies productivity. It tells you that your worth is measured by how much you do, how much you give, and how much you accomplish. But God measures differently. He’s not asking you to perform—He’s asking you to come. To lay it all down. To stop striving for just a moment and let Him carry the weight you were never meant to bear alone.

    This exhaustion you feel isn’t proof that you’re failing. It’s proof that you’ve been strong for too long. You survived what others may never understand. You kept going when it would have been easier to give up. And now, your body and soul ask for what they’ve been deprived of—gentleness, healing, and rest. It’s not that you don’t care anymore; it’s that you’ve finally reached the place where you can begin to breathe again.

    You don’t have to earn the right to rest. You don’t have to justify slowing down. Jesus permitted you when He said, “Come to Me.” His rest is restorative—it doesn’t just refresh the body; it heals the soul. It reminds you that you are safe now, loved, and don’t have to keep proving your worth through effort.

    So, if you feel unmotivated or “stuck,” don’t be hard on yourself. You are not lazy. You are recovering. You are healing from years of exhaustion, and your body has finally stopped masking. Give yourself the grace to slow down, to feel, to rest. Allow yourself to be renewed by the One who restores all things.

    Because healing doesn’t come from pushing through—it comes from surrender. And in that surrender, you’ll find the peace you’ve longed for. You are not broken; You are tired. And that’s precisely who Jesus invites to come to Him—the weary, the burdened, the ones who’ve been fighting for far too long.

    Let Him give you rest. The kind that quiets your soul, steadies your heart, and reminds you that you were never meant to do this alone.

  • 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.