Reflection

In life, you made choices that helped you to survive. These choices never reflected or channeled the true nature of your heart, but they were what the moment required. You raised walls when your tenderness felt too vulnerable. You silenced your needs in order to keep peace in the equation. You led with strength, even when everything inside you felt dark and disorienting. You became who you needed to be in order to make it through seasons no one else could see — and in doing so, you protected something sacred.

Still, despite the fact that you’re healing now, you look back on your past and you wonder if you lost yourself somewhere along the journey. You wonder if you were too guarded, or too hardened, or too distant. You grieve the softness you had to set down just to keep your momentum alive, and somewhere in the quiet, guilt tries to anchor itself within you — trying to convince you that who you were in the depth of your own survival wasn’t good enough.

Survival is not failure. 

Becoming resilient in the face of pain is not something to be ashamed of, is not something to hide from in your story.

You did not abandon your heart, you preserved it. You did not reject who you are, you carried them through, you saved them. God doesn’t hold your armor against you. He holds you — gently, and patiently, and with the kind of compassion that doesn’t need an explanation. He knows you were doing your best with what you had. He knows that you are worthy of love.

Remember, as you step into healing, that the invitation isn’t to resent the version of you who endured, who elbowed their way back into goodness. It is to bless them. To thank them. To release the guilt and let God carry the rest. 

You don’t have to apologize for the strength that kept you alive. That version of you wasn’t the problem — they were the bridge, and because of them, you’re still here.

You’re still here.

Prayer

God, I’ve been holding shame for the ways in which I learned how to survive. Today, I want to lay it down. Help me to release the guilt I feel for how I coped — the armor I wore, the boundaries I built, the fire I carried when I didn’t know how else to stay safe. Thank you for being kind with my past. Thank you for never rushing me to heal. I honor the strength it took to get here, and I trust you with what comes next. 

Amen.