Skip to main content

The Truth Hurts

“We repeat what we refuse to confront.” -unknown

Many years ago, I overheard a negative conversation about me that really “rocked” my world. 

Flames of tension rose from my belly and saturated my temples until anger escaped my flared nostrils like gun-smoke.

Emotions of hurt summoned me into a defensive confrontational posture.

I submitted to flesh and shut the talk down momentarily but it continued to grow to whispers of grievances over the years.

Truth is—our best attempts will never silence critics that insist on shedding light on our unhealed vulnerable places.

In retrospect, I couldn’t understand why the conversation initiated such rage in me, because it didn’t contain an ounce of my reality.

Later, I realized those individuals spoke their truth, not mine. They spoke of their perceptions. I was a foreign object that never fully aligned with their ideal expectations. My presence irritated them. My spirit didn’t fit into a container. They couldn't diagnose what they failed to understand. It secretly vexed them. 

Somehow, this past experience filtered the lens of my most intimate relationships.

The toxic words of their conversation fed my insecurities.

It shaped my vulnerabilities.

It insisted that I was bad.

It confirmed the whispers.

It held me hostage to emotions.

So whenever conflict arose, I fled the scene to cover my vulnerabilities.

Most assumed my absence was a testament of rejection.

However, it was an outward response of the rebellion that grew within. (It was my way of rejecting me).

Sometimes, the truth really does hurt; however, exposing it will bring necessary healing.

This week, I separated myself from outside interference.

I soaked in quiet moments of deep reflection and my soul begin to open up to the beauty of things I took for granted.

I fell back in love with things that I had pushed aside, including me.

I rode my bike through the park and soaked up the sun.

I quieted my mind and read a book in one setting.

I did yoga and practiced guided meditations to eliminate anxiousness.

I danced to the Caribbean beat of reggae vibes for fun.

I laughed at my undercover extroverted underpants, cause I'm really not scared to take a chance.

I pushed through the knee pain and jogged a little on the treadmill.

I prepped and cooked healthy meals that I enjoyed.

I cried therapeutic tears to worship songs.

I prayed on an intense level for emotional healing.

Underneath the pile of distress, I recovered me.

My daily life adventures bought me clarity, gratitude, and closure.

Lord, thank you for loving me—even when I haven’t felt worthy or desirable. Thank you for loving me—in spite of what was broken, lacking, and missing. Thank you for looking pass my flaws, shortcomings, and imperfections. Thank you for daily doses of what natural eyes may never see. Thank you for grace, favor, mercy, and daily provision to stand in your truth—even when hurts.

“Any place we have to hide is not safe.” —Beth Moore

Thank you for the peace of His truth and the freedom to be me resting in my belly on tonight.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Broken Covenant

Once upon a time— I wanted to believe something was real so desperately that I silenced the Spirit within me just to keep the illusion alive. I saw every red flag— not as warnings, but as tests of how much  I was willing to endure to feel chosen. I asked no questions because truth was already whispering, and I feared what obedience would cost me. So I made a covenant with denial— calling lies “grace,” and confusion “patience,” because the truth felt too vast, too holy, too disruptive to the future I had built in my mind. I clung to potential like it was promise, and mistook absence for peace. Yet the weight of it— this thing I called love— crushed my spirit daily. Still, desperation dressed itself as loyalty and convinced me to stay. And it didn’t get better. It decayed. Quietly at first… then unmistakably. Each time God unveiled truth, I chose the comfort of shadows over the calling of light. I pleaded. I prayed. I begged— not for revelation, but for permission to remain where I w...
Post a Comment
Read more

From Chaos to Calm

After a while… the need to be heard at full volume begins to dissolve. The rooftops grow silent. The flames you once fed with trembling hands no longer feel like power— only exhaustion. What you burned never built a home. And somewhere along the way, you realize— not every echo returns, not every seed takes root, not every mountain was yours to climb. The grace you poured out like water in a desert, the love you offered with open, unguarded hands— it did not come back the way you imagined. And still… you are here. So instead of fighting what refuses to bend, you loosen your grip. Not in defeat— but in awakening. You release the need to be answered, to be chosen, to be understood by those who never learned your language. Your hands, once reaching outward, begin to rise— not in desperation, but in devotion. Upward. Open. Steady. God… I see You now in the quiet I once avoided. I hear You not in the thunder— but in the space where my striving used to live. And I am ready. Something within ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Do Not Resuscitate (DNR)

What unsettles me most about some people is not the harm they cause— but the silence that follows it. No conviction. No trembling. No evidence that a soul was ever stirred. As if something sacred once lived there… and quietly left. What remains is form without fire. A body that breathes, but does not  feel . A Walking corpse. Spiritually vacant,  yet socially skilled— fluent in imitation, but foreign to truth. They move through people like weather— touching everything, anchoring nowhere. I once mistook that emptiness for mystery. Confused detachment with depth. Thought restraint was discipline, when it was really disconnection. But there was  no rootedness in him— only appetite. An endless hunger dressed as desire. A man grazing on bodies, scrolling through souls like they were disposable moments. Not searching. Not building. Just consuming— to quiet something unnamed within him. Unhealed wounds don’t stay still. They wander. From bed to bed, from face to face, from high ...
Post a Comment
Read more