I was a child waiting at the door, knuckles pale and small, knocking and hoping, waiting for a world that never answered. I used to believe that if I kept quiet enough, the hurt would pass over me, a storm cloud that didn’t know my name. But it came, it always came—silent as a shadow and sharp as a blade. I was betrayed in ways that words can’t cover, wounded in places where no hands could reach.
So I took to the dark alleys of bottles and powders, searching for a numbing kindness, a half-truth love that felt like home. I grew up in the cold halls of self-destruction, spun my body like a carnival wheel, hoping someday I’d land on something soft, somewhere safe. But there’s no grace in the downward spiral, only endless rooms of hollow echoes, the sound of a life unraveling.
And yet, in the heart of that despair, a sliver of God found me, or maybe I found Him. He didn’t come with trumpet blasts or gentle whispers; He came in a broken dawn, in a shard of light that cut through the endless night. I began to believe—believe in a mercy as old as the universe, believe in a redemption big enough for the fallen and the lost.
Healing is a slow, wild creature. It doesn’t come easy; it claws and scrapes, like roots breaking through concrete. It’s forgiveness in fragments, one moment at a time, inching toward a wholeness I thought was meant for other people, the fortunate ones, the loved ones. But here I am, still standing, with scars like hymns across my skin, with a heart that refuses to stay shut.
I can’t go back, can’t rewrite those small hands and hungry eyes, but I can hold them now. I can tell the child I was that there’s a way through the madness, that there’s a way to live past the bruises. There’s light here, thin as the blade of a sunrise, but it’s enough.
And in that slender, holy light, I am reborn.
B 🤍
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