I shouldn’t be here. Not statistically. Not logically. Not by any earthly measure.
Childhood abuse took the foundation out from under me before I even knew what one was. The people who should have protected me handed me over to darkness. I learned early that the world could be cruel, that pain could be normal, that trust was a luxury.
Then came heroin. It promised numbness. It delivered chains. I traded years of my life for moments without pain, and nearly lost the whole thing. Addiction doesn’t care that you have potential. It doesn’t care about your family or your dreams. It only cares about the next fix.
And yet—God.
Not the vague, self-help version of God. The living God who breaks shackles and raises the dead.
When I had nothing left to offer, He met me there. When I was filthy, ashamed, and unreachable, He reached anyway. I didn’t “find my faith” like some lost wallet. I was hunted down by grace and dragged out of hell by Someone stronger than the thing holding me.
The abuse didn’t get the last word.
The needle didn’t get the last word.
Jesus did.
Now I live free—not because I’m strong, but because He is. My scars are still here, but they’re no longer open wounds. They’re proof.
If you’re in that pit: the rope is already there. Grab it.
B🤍
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