More Than Worthy

Somewhere in the longing, I discovered a new version of myself.

Not a louder version.
Not a hardened version.
But a healed, awakened version.

A revelation began to unfold — one that allowed me to finally grasp my worth.

Somewhere between survival mode and silent endurance, I had drifted. Days turned into weeks, weeks into years, and without even realizing it, I was functioning in the mess instead of living in freedom. When you live in constant survival, you don’t notice how much of yourself you’ve misplaced just to keep everything else standing.

And here is the truth I’ve come to know:

The further we drift from our true identity, the harder it feels to find our way back.

But harder does not mean impossible.

Even when it feels like the best version of you is unreachable…
You are more than worthy of rediscovering her.

This is where refining takes place.

Refining is not rejection.
It is not punishment.
It is preparation.

There is a moment — just before the sun breaks over the horizon — when everything is still dark. You cannot yet see the warmth, but you know it is coming. The air shifts. The light begins to press back the night.

That is what restoration feels like.

It is rising before you feel ready.
It is standing when you once collapsed.
It is lifting your face toward the light after years of staring at the ground.

The fire that was meant to consume you becomes the place where you are strengthened. The ashes that represent what was lost become the soil where something new begins to grow.

God speaks restoration over what you thought was wasted:

“I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten.” — Book of Joel 2:25

He is not intimidated by the time you believe was lost.
He is not limited by the version of you that merely survived.
He restores.
He rebuilds.
He renews.

And what He restores does not come back fragile — it comes back refined.

Redemption belongs to you.
Restoration belongs to you.
An overwhelming, unshakable peace belongs to you through the grace of God.

Never allow someone to steal your joy.
Never lower your standards to accommodate someone else’s dysfunction.
Never sacrifice your peace just to keep temporary comfort.
Never surrender your safe space for fear that was never yours to carry.

And most of all — never surrender to the enemy in your weakest moments of battle.

Because weakness does not disqualify you.
It positions you for strength that only comes from the Maker.

You are more than worthy of a life lived in the warmth of His light — not hidden in survival, not shrinking to survive someone else’s chaos, but standing whole, healed, and unafraid.

It may not be easy.
It may cost you comfort.
It may require every ounce of courage you have left.

When you have poured yourself out for everyone else…
When you feel like there is nothing left to give…

God will meet you there.

He will give you strength to rise from the ashes.
He will walk with you through the fire.
He will remind you that fighting for your self-worth is not selfish — it is obedience.

Even when you cannot see your value clearly,
He never loses sight of it.

Even when you feel unworthy,
He calls you chosen.

Even when you feel forgotten,
He calls you redeemed.

The sun will rise again.
And when it does, you will not be the same woman who entered the fire.

You will be stronger.
Clearer.
Rooted.

You are not too far gone.
You are not too damaged.
You are not too late.

You are — and have always been — more than worthy.

The Secret Place

Somewhere in the mess… you disappeared.

Between the responsibilities, the heartbreak, the expectations, and the silent battles no one sees—you got lost. Not all at once. But slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece.

And now you look in the mirror and barely recognize her.

Here is the truth no one wants to say out loud:
You will not find yourself in the noise.
You will not heal by staying busy.
You will not rise by pretending you’re fine.

You find yourself in the longing.

That ache deep inside that whispers, There has to be more than this.

We were never called to survive at surface level. Survival keeps you functioning—but it does not make you whole. It keeps you moving—but it does not make you free.

Freedom lives in the secret place.

Not a physical place. A sacred one. The place where only you and the Father have walked. The place you avoid because it feels too deep, too raw, too exposed.

But that is where she is.

The happy, carefree, full-of-life, Jesus-got-this kind of girl. She isn’t gone. She’s buried under fear, disappointment, and exhaustion.

Scripture says,

“He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” — Psalm 91:1

Dwelling requires staying.
Staying requires courage.

It takes courage to sit still long enough to feel what you’ve been outrunning.
Courage to face the darkest parts of your own heart.
Courage to stop surviving and start seeking.

But healing does not happen on the surface.

It happens in the depths—the place where the tears fall freely and the masks come off. The place where you finally whisper the prayers you’ve been afraid to pray.

And there, in that quiet, the Father meets you.

Not with shame.
Not with disappointment.
But with presence.

Until you choose to rise and visit the hidden places of your soul, you will never rise from the ashes of the life you are living.

It is okay to feel.
It is okay to stop.
It is okay to take time for you.
To be quiet.
To be still.
To search.
To seek.
To pray.

Push yourself toward what makes you healthy. Safe. Stable. Whole.

Turn down the noise.
Shut the door.
Go to the secret place.

And stay.

Because when you do, the pieces begin to settle. The lies lose their grip. The chaos grows quiet.

And one day you will look in the mirror again—

And recognize her.

Not the woman who barely survived.
But the one who went into the depths…
and came back alive.

Open Wounds

There are wounds you can see.
And then there are the ones that bleed quietly beneath the surface.

Emotional neglect creates wounds that do not bruise the skin but fracture the spirit. When instability becomes your normal — when love feels conditional, when affirmation is rare, when your value is questioned more than it is celebrated — you begin to question yourself. Your worth. Your character. Your place.

You replay conversations.
You analyze your tone.
You shrink to make things easier.

And still, it is not enough.

Healing in that environment feels like a revolving door. Just when you think the wound is closing, another careless word, another dismissive glance, another broken promise tears it open again. Open wounds make you lose yourself in the mess of your circumstances. They keep you focused on survival instead of restoration. They convince you that endurance is the same thing as healing.

But it is not.

There must come a moment — quiet but firm — when you realize that tending to your own soul is not selfish. It is necessary. There must come a time when you decide to put yourself first, to cut off the chains that have kept you bound to confusion, to chaos, to constant questioning. A season of healing will ask things of you. It may require letting go. It may mean surrendering what you hoped would change. It may even mean walking away from the ones you love most.

That is not weakness.
That is courage.

Healing is not loud. It is not dramatic. It is often unseen. It is choosing peace when dysfunction calls your name. It is choosing truth when lies have defined you. It is choosing to believe that God did not design you to live in perpetual wounding.

Scripture reminds us:

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3

Notice — He binds up their wounds. He does not shame them for having them. He does not rush them through the process. He does not dismiss the depth of the pain. He draws near and tends to what is open.

The journey of healing is one only you can walk — but you do not walk it alone. Your Maker is not intimidated by your trauma. He is not exhausted by your tears. He is not confused by your questions. Where people were inconsistent, He is steady. Where love was withdrawn, His remains.

Do not lose hope over the open wounds.

They are not proof that you are unworthy.
They are proof that something hurt you.

And what hurt you does not get to define you.

Choose life.
Choose healing.
Choose the slow, sacred process of becoming whole again.

The wound may be open today.
But it does not have to stay that way.

When the Battle Is Over but the War Lingers

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14

Is the most difficult part to bear in the midst of the battle, or the silent mental prison that lingers behind? Undoubtedly, it is the aftermath—the chaos, the battle, the struggle, in whatever form it arises. It’s the adrenaline in the moment, the anxiety, the blood boiling, the heavy silence that overtakes every ounce of your being as you whisper, this is not my battle… this is not my battle.

Let’s be honest—it is incredibly difficult to exercise full surrender in the hellish heat of the battle. Every part of our body is screaming to enter fight mode. We want to defend ourselves, lash out, say the harsh words we don’t mean… or maybe the ones we do. Raise our voices louder than we should, sometimes even scream in the face of the one we love most, just to cover the pain.

But it is the self-control and complete confidence we find in our glorious Maker that tames the flesh-driven spirit inside of us. Getting through these battles by allowing God to fight them—that is what makes a true overcomer. There is a quiet sense of victory that follows, a moment where we rest in His peace and hear Him whisper, well done, my child.

The Holy Spirit living within us is what keeps the fight under submission. He restrains what our flesh longs to release. Flight mode, on the other hand, can sometimes get the best of us in the moment. While retreat may feel safer and often produces less immediate damage than fight, it can still carry lasting consequences once the heat dies down. Running doesn’t heal the wound—it only delays the reckoning. Only surrender allows God to fully step in and restore what the battle tried to destroy.

Then… the aftermath comes.
If you’ve been there, you know.

The overwhelming feeling of failure. The self-doubt. The belief that everything that transpired is somehow your fault. It feels like a million demons chasing you as you push through heavy brush, desperately trying to make it to the feet of the Father. The thoughts. The emotions. Or maybe the absence of emotion—which can be an even darker place to sit.

This season feels endless, like a million days rolled into one. We bathe in it, suffer in it, and somehow—only by the grace of God—we function in it. Every single day in this lonely place, we put on a smile and face the world with strength that comes only from our Maker.

Through my belief in the power of Jesus, I have seen time and time again that this place is only a season. Resting in the truth that He will work even this for our good is what carries us through. That belief clears the path through the heavy brush, makes the demons flee, and opens the way to the feet of the Almighty.

That is where we should always strive to be—at the feet of Jesus.

Keeping faith and holding tightly to God’s promises is what brings us through the battles. It carries us through the moments when we feel like our worst selves, reminding us that through Him, we can become the best version of ourselves—regardless of the circumstances. When we listen to that quiet whisper, this is not my battle, we invite God onto the scene to fight for us, and we allow ourselves to rest in His arms through the silent mental war that always follows the storm.

Prayer

Father God,
In the heat of the battle and in the silence that follows, remind us that this is not ours to carry alone. When every part of our body is screaming to fight or run, help us to be still and trust You to move. Quiet our minds, guard our words, and tame the storm inside us with Your Spirit. When the aftermath feels heavy, and the mental weight tries to pull us under, lead us back to Your feet. Fill our lungs with breath, our hearts with peace, and our souls with the assurance that You are fighting for us. Teach us to surrender—not out of weakness, but out of trust. We lay it all down and rest in You.
Amen.

Grieving the Memories

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3

Grief is not always suffered from the loss of someone you love dearly or hold close to your heart.
Often, grief simply comes from the loss of something you once had. Memories are all around us and are brought to mind through simple things — a song once shared, a familiar smell that can never be forgotten, or even a single word that brings back a moment in time you hold dear.

For me, the deepest pain comes from living in the midst of what is grieved the most — the small, intimate moments, the touch, the security, the simplicity of being fully present in a moment where nothing else existed except the memory being created. Over the years, those memories intertwine with pain and trauma, with doubt and sorrow, until you begin to lose yourself in the scramble of what was and what is.

Those sweet memories are swallowed up by this thing we call life — or perhaps, the sins of the world. It steals the minds of those we hold close, whispers lies of defeat, and slowly turns memories into grief — a slow, painful grief that feels like an open wound that never heals. Every scab is a small glimpse of hope for what once was, knowing deep down it may never be again.

The silent suffering… every PTSD wife has felt this grief — longing for moments of the past and hoping for their return in the future. The despair cries out for even one more moment as it was, one more memory of what it should be. The quiet nights awake in silence turn into utter loneliness that leaves you clinging to God for that last bit of hope — the hope that brings comfort and peace.

When we grieve, we grieve not for a life that was lost, but for the love that once was.

As we grieve the memories of what once was, let us cling to God for what is to come. He has a love that surpasses all understanding. This worldly love we so desire to mend can become an overwhelming, perfect love in His presence. Fix your mind upon God in the loneliness of life. Allow Him to heal the wound that feels as if it can never heal. Pray for the love you once had to return — for God can move in mighty, unthinkable ways when we surrender our silent suffering and allow Him to fight our battles.