Speaking up was the turn. It wasn’t the finish line.

Speaking up was the turn. It wasn’t the finish line.
I used to think that once the words were out — once I’d finally said what happened, once
other women stood up behind me — the hardest part was over. I thought courage was the
whole story.
It wasn’t.
Courage got me out of the silence. It didn’t get me through what came after.
Healing had its own timeline — one that didn’t care how brave I’d already been. It asked
something different of me: Rebuilding. Relearning. A decision-making process. It looks
slightly different depending on your unique circumstances, but I’ve found it helpful to
name it, so you can recognize it and put it into practice wherever you need it.
Solitude; time alone, either early in the morning or later in the evening — became part of
it. That required time management and self-discipline: setting aside the time, then actually
inspecting the areas I’d been avoiding because facing them was painful.

Where do you go to be alone with your thoughts? Is it early morning, before the day asks
anything of you? Or later at night, when everything finally goes quiet? Wherever it is, that
time takes discipline to protect — and once you have it, what have you been avoiding
looking at, simply because it’s painful to face?
Have you forgiven yourself yet? Not the person who hurt you — yourself. Have you told
yourself the truth: that it wasn’t your fault? That it was never your fault?
And once you’ve begun to forgive yourself, can you trust yourself again — even with the
small decisions? What does guarding your heart look like for you? What would it mean to
be mindful of what you say, even in prayer?
After so many years of going against the grain — or just flowing wherever the wind blew me
— I finally sat still. Solitude, for six months straight.
And then I surrendered my life to Christ, the one true King of Israel.
I walked into that church with every fiber of me shaking, butterflies all through my body,
my stomach in knots. I was ready to release what was no longer serving me. I went down to
the altar. I fell on my knees. I gave my life back to Christ.
It wasn’t just that I learned to trust myself again. It wasn’t just that I forgave myself. I
surrendered — my life, my heart, my trust — to Him.
Faith looked like this: I forgave myself, and I became more disciplined — in solitude, and
outside of it too. I forgave myself and others, and I surrendered my life over to Christ,
trusting that no matter what is done or left undone, the Lord has my back.

I remind myself of this because it’s written in the Word, in detail. I read it every day as I keep
growing into trust, staying obedient, watching God unfold His plans for my life right before
my eyes — naturally, in His timing. Even when that means relationships fall apart. Even
when it means letting go of things and people who no longer fit who I am today in Christ.
Staying faithful isn’t just believing the Lord will do what He said He’ll do, or fulfill the
promises written in the Word. It’s doing my part too — the good works, the laboring, the
serving, near and far — and remembering that all of us are connected to Christ.
If you resonated with this testimony, know this: the Lord knew exactly what He was doing
when He had me sit and create it.
You are never alone. And sometimes the hardest thing is sitting with ourselves, facing the
pain we carry within, and trusting God enough to let Him deliver us from it.
It only takes one small decision. One leap of faith. One true commitment to surrender.
God bless you all. Amen.