My story didn’t begin with strength. It began with silence. I was a child who learned too early that adults can twist love into a weapon. I carried that secret like poison in my body. And when I grew older, I turned the knife inward.
In my teens and twenties, I lived like someone already condemned. I hurt myself in every way possible — with substances, with destructive choices, with people who only confirmed what I already believed about myself: that I was ruined, unworthy, unlovable. I didn’t need anyone else to punish me. I had become my own executioner.
But God never left me, even when I ran as far and as fast as I could. In the darkness, He kept whispering. In the chaos, He kept reaching. And when I finally broke open enough to cry out to Him, He answered. Not with condemnation, but with rescue. Not with shame, but with a promise: what the enemy meant for evil, I will use for good.
Every scar turned into sight. Every mistake turned into mercy. Every year I thought was wasted, He has set on fire for His purpose.
The years I spent breaking myself open are still with me, etched into my bones, but they no longer have power over me. I survived the darkness I thought would swallow me, and in that survival, something unshakable formed.
What once crushed me has become the foundation I stand on. I carry my scars without apology, and in their presence, I move forward with clarity, with faith, and with a quiet, relentless strength that cannot be undone.
B 🤍
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