My first memories of evil are not blurred—they are sharp, searing, and unshakable. Fear walked in the door before I had words for it. It crept into my childhood and sat heavy on my chest, teaching me to stay small, teaching me to hide. I carried that fear like it was part of my identity.
And for a long time, it was. Fear shaped me. It made me brittle, self-protective, desperate to fill the crack it left inside me. I turned to myself, to selfishness, to chasing numbness in addiction, thinking I was strong because I could survive. But survival is not the same as living. And my “strength” was nothing but brokenness dressed up as control.
That’s when God came for me. Not politely. Not waiting for me to invite Him in. He hunted me down. He didn’t let me go. He let me run until I was exhausted, and then He caught me. The same God who saw me hiding as a child refused to let me hide as an adult.
And when He broke me open, He didn’t leave me in pieces. He refashioned me. He took the fear that was supposed to cripple me and turned it into fire. Fire to love my children fiercely. Fire to protect innocence the way mine was not protected. Fire to live with a holy stubbornness that will not bend to despair.
Motherhood has revealed it all. I am tougher than I ever thought I could be. Stronger than the broken girl I once was could have imagined. Every sleepless night, every child tugging on me, every sacrifice—it all becomes proof that God not only rescued me, He remade me.
I still carry scars. I still remember the fear. But the fear is not the end of the story. God took what was meant for ruin and lit it with His presence. Now I burn—with love, with truth, with a strength that does not come from me.
From fear to fire. That’s the story. And it’s all Him.
B🤍
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