I sit here with trembling hands, pen scratching against the paper, trying to find the shape of mercy. Not for someone else this time—not for the ones who wronged me or the ghosts who visit at midnight—but for myself. For this tattered, bruised soul who survived the gauntlet and still breathes.
God whispers, “Start here,” and I begin to write.
I have survived. That sentence alone should be enough, yet it feels weightless in my mouth. Survival came at a cost. The shattered pieces of me lie scattered across memories—his hands, her lies, the silence of the world when I screamed. I have borne my pain like a badge, stitched it to my chest, and wore it like armor. But now, that same pain has turned on me, hissing in my ear: You should have done better. You should have healed faster. You should have been stronger.
God sees my torment, and I feel Him nudging me to answer those accusations with something radical: mercy.
Mercy looks like the mornings I let myself stay in bed when the weight of the past is too much. It looks like forgiving myself for the nights I numbed the pain in all the wrong ways, when I needed silence so badly I drowned myself in it.
It looks like standing in front of the mirror—where I’ve spent years cataloging my flaws—and saying, You are enough. Not because I believe it yet, but because God does.
In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Rest. Mercy. He didn’t say I had to earn it. He didn’t say I had to apologize for the brokenness that wasn’t mine to fix. He just offered it, freely, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
I remember the first time I felt this kind of mercy. I was sitting in my car after yet another therapy session where I couldn’t untangle my words or my tears. I hated myself for being such a mess. But in that small, suffocating space, I prayed—not an eloquent prayer, just a raw cry for help—and the answer came, not in thunder or lightning, but in a quiet thought: It’s okay to be where you are.
God didn’t demand that I leap out of the pit of despair that day. He climbed down into it with me, held my hand, and showed me that even in my most broken state, I was still loved.
So now, when the voice of shame rises up, I try to remember that moment. I imagine God’s hand on my shoulder, His voice in my ear: You are not your suffering. You are not your mistakes. You are My child.
Mercy for myself means taking small steps—letting myself laugh without guilt, allowing myself to fail without punishment, and learning to speak to myself as I would to someone I love. It means acknowledging that healing isn’t linear, and that’s okay.
If you’re reading this, maybe you’re like me. Maybe you’ve been through a gauntlet so brutal it feels like there’s nothing left of you but ashes. But let me tell you what God is teaching me: the ashes are where new life begins.
Have mercy for yourself. Not because you deserve it, but because He gives it. Not because you’re perfect, but because He is. Let God show you how to see yourself through His eyes—full of grace, full of love, full of promise.
And if you can’t believe it yet, I’ll believe it for you.
B🤍
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