Category: blogs

There was a time when I thought I had to chase God. Run faster. Pray louder. Read more. Do better. But somewhere along my healing journey, I realized something different: God wasn’t asking me to chase Him. He was asking me to make room for Him.

To hold space. To slow down. To be still.

And let me tell you, that’s harder than it sounds when your life feels like it’s constantly unraveling. When trauma trains your nervous system to stay in survival mode, silence can feel like a threat. Stillness? Foreign. But holding space for the divine isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being present.

I had to learn that God shows up in quiet corners. Not always with thunder and fire, but sometimes with a whisper in the middle of my messy kitchen, or a gentle tug on my heart as I sat with tears I didn’t fully understand. I used to fill every hour, every thought, every breath with something, noise, distraction, hustle. But I was crowding out the One who could bring peace.

So I started making a room. Some mornings, I sit in silence before the world wakes up. Sometimes, I make a journal mess instead of hiding it.

Other times, I just cry and let God meet me in the softness of my surrender. And you know what? He always comes. Not because I earned it. But because He’s always been there, waiting for me to stop, breathe, and let Him in. Friend, if life feels heavy right now, don’t run harder.

Pause.

Make room.

God doesn’t need a perfect space, just an open one. And when you hold that space, even for a moment, you’ll find the divine is closer than you ever imagined.

I used to think “redemption” was only for sermons, big, holy words that sounded good on Sundays, clean and out of reach for me. Growing up, I mostly knew words like shame, survival, struggle, and silence.

Redemption seemed reserved for perfect people, the churchgoers without a past like mine. But life shattered that illusion, revealing that redemption isn’t just a church word; it’s a gritty, healing truth for everyone. God redeemed years I thought were beyond repair, not erasing pain but repurposing it. The abuse gave me a voice to help others heal, and poverty taught me contentment and generosity.

The rejection and abandonment? He replaced it with a tribe of people who love me deeply and remind me I’m not alone.

God doesn’t just rescue you from the pit, He restores what was stolen, giving beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, praise for despair. Redemption isn’t a one-time event but a daily, sometimes hourly choice to believe your past doesn’t define you, God does. It’s waking up on a Tuesday and deciding, even if unworthy, you’re still chosen. It’s showing up despite shame, forgiving yourself for what you didn’t know, and walking boldly into what God shows you now.

If you’re reading this and thinking, But you don’t know what I’ve done… you’re right. I don’t.

But I do know this: God is not intimidated by your past. Not the mess, not the secrets, not the mistakes. He’s not scared of your brokenness.

In fact, that’s exactly where He begins. So if you’re still stuck in guilt, still wearing labels that don’t belong to you, still believing that your story ends with the trauma, you need to know this: redemption is coming. And when it shows up, it’s not going to be pretty and perfect; it’ll be real. It will look like hope rising out of hopeless places. It will sound like laughter in a room that once held only silence. It will feel like freedom in a heart that was once chained to shame.

You are not too far gone. You are not disqualified.

It’s for you.

He rewrote mine.

And he can rewrite yours, too.

All my life, I lived under a lie; I wasn’t enough.

Not good enough to be loved.

Not smart enough to succeed.

Not holy enough for God.

That lie? It echoed in my head louder than any truth. It came wrapped in the silence of my childhood home, in the absence of affection, in the words people never said. It came through comparison, rejection, and the deep ache of not being seen. I wore it like a second skin, believing that if I could just do more, be more, fix myself, maybe then I’d finally be enough.

But it was never true.

That lie didn’t come from God. It came from broken places, broken people, and a broken world.

God whispered something different, soft, but steady: You are chosen. You are called. You are mine.

It took time to believe Him. Time to silence the old voices and unlearn the lies. I had to confront wounds I didn’t want to touch and let go of labels that were never mine to carry.

But as I leaned into His truth, the lie began to lose its power. Slowly, painfully, beautifully, I started to see myself the way He always had.

If you’ve been carrying that same lie, if you think you’re too broken, too far behind, too messed up to be used, please hear me: God is not waiting for perfection. He’s waiting for surrender.

You are not disqualified. You are being prepared. Your past doesn’t cancel your purpose. Your wounds don’t void your worth.

God sees every part of you, and still, He calls you His. And that… that changes everything.

You’d think I found God in a church pew, hands lifted, surrounded by worship music and warm smiles. But no. I didn’t find Him there, not at first.

I found God on a cold floor, curled up in a puddle of my own tears after another night of feeling like I wasn’t enough. I found Him when I was angry, angry at the world, angry at myself, and if I’m being honest, angry at Him. I didn’t show up with praise. I showed up with pain.

And somehow, He still met me there.

It wasn’t in the perfection that I found Him. It was in the real, raw, unfiltered mess when I stopped pretending. When I stopped trying to “fake” my way through things, I needed to feel. I found him in loneliness, a dark room full of myself and my suffering. That’s when I heard Him whisper, “I’m still here.”

One thing I learned is when you find his voice, his support, you realize that God has always been there, always been listening and waiting for us to come closer enough to listen to him. But all our lives, we expected him to come to us.

Nobody tells you that healing doesn’t start with a sermon; it starts with surrender. Not the pretty kind. The trembling, tired, worn-down kind. Healing begins when you get honest. Honest with yourself. Honest with God. Honest about what hurt, who left, what broke.

I didn’t heal overnight. This isn’t a fairytale. Some days, I still limp from wounds I once hid. But every time I brought my broken pieces to Him, He never turned away. He didn’t flinch at my doubts or shame me for questioning. He simply gave me grace repeatedly. You don’t need to be perfect, the right words, a polished past, or a clear path to come to God. Just come. If your life is shattered, don’t hide it. Present it to Him, trembling, and see what He does. God doesn’t just fix broken things; He builds with them.

He transforms shattered stories into sacred testimonies, including mine, and can do the same for yours. too.