“I was functioning on the outside and falling apart on the inside.”
I know what it’s like to carry grief you’ve never named. To walk into your own home and feel like a stranger. To snap at your kids and then lie awake hating yourself for it. To perform strength while something underneath is rotting.
For me it started with loss — the kind that doesn’t announce itself and doesn’t leave. It settled into my chest and started making decisions for me. My anger wasn’t anger. It was grief with nowhere to go. My walls weren’t strength. They were a wound I’d learned to manage well enough to fool most people.
What changed wasn’t one moment. It was the slow, hard work of naming it. Facing it. Bringing it before God and letting Him do what only He can do. Scripture didn’t give me comfort from the pain — it gave me the courage to walk through it.
I’m not a therapist. I don’t offer a soft place to land. I offer truth, accountability, Scripture, and a relentless belief that God does not waste our pain — He forges it into something.