Unseen Wounds

What is anchored in God cannot be destroyed.

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  • I Didn’t Change. I Just Stop Explaining

    “I didn’t become quiet. I just got tired of explaining my heart to people who weren’t listening. I used to lay it all out — my feelings, my thoughts, my fears — hoping someone would see me, really see me. But after enough times of being misunderstood or dismissed, I realized some parts of me are too deep to hand out casually. So now I pause. I watch. I feel everything — quietly. And if I go silent, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I care too much.”

    I Notice Everything

    People don’t see it.

    I notice the energy shift.

    I notice when effort drops.

    I notice when someone isn’t really choosing me.

    And I don’t always say it.

    Not because I don’t care.

    Because I care too much.

    I feel deeply. I always have.

    I don’t know how to love halfway.

    I don’t know how to detach casually.

    I don’t know how to pretend something doesn’t bother me when it does.

    So instead of arguing… I go quiet.

    Shutting Down Isn’t Coldness

    It’s protection.

    It’s me asking myself:

    Is this safe to speak about?

    Will I be heard?

    Or will I feel small again?

    If my heart senses dismissal, I retreat.

    Not because I don’t care.

    But because I care too much to keep exposing the soft parts of me in the wrong place.

    Strength Doesn’t Cancel Softness

    People see strength and independence and assume I don’t need reassurance.

    They see calmness and assume nothing affects me.

    But strength doesn’t cancel softness.

    I still want to feel chosen.

    I still want loyalty.

    I still want to feel safe enough to open fully.

    I don’t want chaos.

    I don’t want games.

    I don’t want intensity without security.

    I want depth. I want presence. I want honesty.

    The Truth About Me

    I’m layered.

    I can be strong and sensitive.

    Independent and wanting closeness.

    Calm but overthinking everything at 1 a.m.

    Confident but still needing reassurance sometimes.

    Maybe I don’t explain myself as much anymore.

    But that doesn’t mean I stopped feeling.

    It means I learned not everyone deserves access to the deepest parts of me.

    To Anyone Who Feels This Way

    If you’ve become quieter…

    You’re not broken.

    You’re exhausted.

    You’ve loved hard, been misunderstood, and maybe underestimated.

    You’ve felt like your depth is too much for people who live on the surface.

    And that’s okay.

    Your softness isn’t weakness.

    Your intensity isn’t too much.

    Your loyalty isn’t a mistake.

    You’re not too much.

    You’re real.

    You’re layered.

    And the right people will see all of it — and still choose you.

  • Fighting to Keep My Mind

    Sometimes when people say “keep fighting,” they think it means yelling louder, proving a point, or winning.

    But lately, my fight has looked different.

    My fight has been to keep my head.

    To not lose myself in situations that test my peace.

    To not let betrayal turn me bitter.

    To not let competition turn me cold.

    It’s hard when the hurt doesn’t come from strangers.

    It’s harder when it comes from someone who shares your blood.

    There’s a different kind of pain when you feel like you’re constantly defending your peace, your space, or even your relationships. It makes you question yourself. It makes you overthink. It makes you want to react.

    But I’m learning something:

    Not every battle deserves my energy.

    Not every reaction deserves my voice.

    And not every situation deserves access to my peace.

    My growth looks like silence sometimes.

    My strength looks like walking away.

    My power looks like choosing not to compete.

    Because what is truly mine will not need to be fought over.

    I am no longer fighting people.

    I am fighting for my clarity.

    For my sanity.

    For my healing.

    And that is a battle worth winning.

  • “It was not easy, God.

    But even this heartbreak, this betrayal, this confusion —

    it has taught me things comfort never could.

    Through the pain with my children’s father,

    through the sister wound,

    through feeling replaced and misunderstood —

    You have been teaching me.

    You’ve been teaching me my worth.

    You’ve been teaching me discernment.

    You’ve been teaching me that I am sustained by You, not by a man.

    What tried to break me is building me.

    My affliction is not punishment — it is preparation.

    And I trust that nothing I’ve cried over is wasted.”

    Now let me give you a softer, more intimate version — like something that could go straight into your book:

    “God, if this pain was the classroom, then I will not fail the lesson.

    I will not let betrayal turn me bitter.

    I will let it make me wiser.

    If this was the fire, then refine me — don’t ruin me.

    You promised my suffering would teach me something eternal.

    So I choose to believe You.”

  • Anger and Lies – When Our Hearts Are Tested

    Anger is powerful.

    It can rise suddenly, like a storm we didn’t see coming.

    It can take over our minds, our hearts, our words.

    And here’s the truth: anger can open doors we never intended to unlock.

    When we’re angry, our perception gets distorted.

    Judgment becomes clouded.

    Small problems feel enormous.

    Intentions are misread.

    Words are amplified.

    In that space, lies—both from others and from ourselves—can slip in.

    A friend’s comment can suddenly feel like betrayal.

    A partner’s action can feel like rejection.

    A situation can feel worse than it really is.

    We start believing falsehoods.

    We start speaking them too.

    Anger creates a crack in our reasoning.

    Through that crack, deception enters.

    It’s subtle, but it’s dangerous.

    The way to guard our hearts? Pause.

    Breathe. Step back.

    Give space for clarity.

    For reflection.

    For God’s truth to guide our thoughts and words.

    “Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry.” – Ephesians 4:26

    Anger doesn’t have to destroy trust.

    It doesn’t have to lead us to believe lies.

    It can be a signal to slow down, to listen, to pray, and to let God’s perspective shape our response.

    When we learn to pause, anger loses its power.

    When we learn to pause, lies lose their hold.

    When we learn to pause, our hearts stay anchored in truth.

  • Loving God Through the Fire

    I believe God gives us trials.

    Not to break us.

    Not to punish us.

    But so we can truly love Him.

    Not the easy kind of love—the love that smiles when life is simple.

    But the love that grows in the hard places.

    The love that stretches us.

    The love that waits in the nights so long we think we can’t survive them.

    Trials teach us trust.

    They teach us what it means to lean when our legs are shaking.

    They teach us to hope when hope feels gone.

    They strip away everything we hold onto…

    So we can hold onto Him.

    Every struggle.

    Every heartbreak.

    Every moment that tests me…

    I’ve learned more about God’s love than I ever could in comfort.

    Loving Him isn’t about feeling safe.

    It’s about trusting Him even when it hurts.

    Even when it doesn’t make sense.

    Even when we want to give up.

    The fire is painful.

    But it purifies.

    It softens hardened hearts.

    It wakes hearts that had gone numb.

    It makes love real.

    God’s trials aren’t meant to destroy us.

    They are meant to teach us how to love Him back.

    To trust Him in ways we never could if life were easy.

    And slowly.

    Painfully.

    Beautifully…

    Love grows.

  • When God Says Go And Im’ Still Afraid

    There’s something pulling at me.

    I feel like God is saying, “Go.”

    But if I go, it feels like I’m going backward.

    And that’s the part no one talks about.

    We love testimonies about moving forward. Elevation. Promotion. New seasons. But what about when obedience looks like stepping down? Letting go? Returning to something you thought you already outgrew?

    I feel fear.

    Not just a little fear. The kind that makes you question yourself. The kind that makes you ask, “Is this God… or is this me running?”

    Part of me feels relief at the thought of staying. Staying is familiar. Staying is safe. Staying doesn’t require explanation.

    But another part of me feels regret just imagining not going.

    And that’s what’s shaking me.

    Because what if backward isn’t backward?

    What if it’s positioning?

    What if it’s pruning?

    What if it’s protection?

    Sometimes obedience doesn’t look like progress. Sometimes it looks like surrender.

    And surrender is terrifying.

    I don’t want to look foolish.

    I don’t want to look unstable.

    I don’t want to feel like I failed.

    But I also don’t want to disobey.

    So here I am — in between fear and faith.

    Not confident.

    Not certain.

    Just listening.

    Maybe courage isn’t the absence of fear.

    Maybe courage is moving while your hands are shaking.

    And maybe — just maybe — if God is really saying go…

    He’ll meet me wherever I land.

  • If No One Could See It

    What if it’s not backward?

    What if it only feels backward because people are watching?

    I keep asking myself that.

    Because if nobody could see my decision…

    If nobody could judge it…

    If nobody could whisper about it…

    Would I still be afraid to go?

    Or would I just go?

    Maybe the fear isn’t about the move.

    Maybe it’s about the image.

    We work so hard to look strong.

    To look like we’re progressing.

    To look like we’re winning.

    So when God whispers “go” and it doesn’t look like promotion — it looks like surrender — everything inside of us resists.

    Because surrender feels like shrinking.

    But what if shrinking is sacred?

    What if going back isn’t regression, but realignment?

    There’s a version of me that wants applause.

    There’s a version of me that wants peace.

    And they are not the same woman.

    I don’t want to make decisions based on pride.

    I don’t want to stay somewhere just because it looks like growth.

    Sometimes the bravest thing a woman can do is choose obedience over appearance.

    And maybe that’s where I am.

    Not lost.

    Not weak.

    Just standing between fear and faith.

    Trying to choose who I really am becoming.

  • Left Behide

    There’s a kind of grief people don’t talk about.

    The kind where you look around one day and realize you’re the one still standing.

    When you grow up surrounded by siblings, noise, protection, laughter — you assume you’ll grow old together. You assume there will always be someone who remembers the same childhood you do.

    But life doesn’t always keep everyone at the table.

    One by one, seats become empty.

    And no one prepares you for the question that follows:

    Why am I left behind?

    Some of us learn to be strong early. We don’t let emotions run the show. We handle things. We keep moving. We survive.

    But strength doesn’t cancel grief. It just carries it quietly.

    There’s also the grief of what never came to be. The family you imagined. The future you thought would unfold a certain way. The legacy you pictured continuing.

    Sometimes loss isn’t loud.

    Sometimes it’s just… permanent.

    And sometimes the hardest part isn’t death.

    It’s watching life change the people you love.

    It can feel like your world was pulled from you piece by piece.

    But here’s what I’m realizing:

    Being left doesn’t always mean being forgotten.

    Sometimes it means you’re the one holding the memories.

    The one carrying the stories forward.

    The one who still remembers the laughter.

    Grief is proof of love.

    And love doesn’t disappear just because life changes.

    Maybe being left behind isn’t the end of the story.

    Maybe it means I’m still here for a reason.

    If you want it even shorter, more raw, or with a faith edge, tell me the tone and I’ll adjust it to match your voice exactly.

  • When the Shell Is Left Behind

    I’ve been thinking about death lately—not in a dark way, but in a quiet, wondering way. And the closest image I can find is this: we are like snails when we die.

    A snail leaves behind its shell. The shell still looks like it did before—same shape, same markings—but the life that once filled it is gone. What made it move, reach, respond to touch… has slipped away.

    That’s how it feels when someone we love dies.

    The body is still there, but they aren’t. And that difference can be unsettling. Sometimes painful. Sometimes confusing. Because your eyes tell you one thing, but your heart knows another.

    When someone has hurt you, or left you, or been taken from you, it can feel like you’re staring at a shell—trying to understand where the life went. You replay conversations. You remember their laugh. You wonder how something so full can suddenly be so still.

    But here’s what I’m learning: the shell isn’t the whole story.

    The love didn’t die with the body. The impact didn’t disappear. The connection didn’t evaporate. Just because something is no longer visible doesn’t mean it no longer exists.

    For those of us who believe in a soul, this image brings comfort. The spirit isn’t trapped. It isn’t broken. It simply moved on—lighter, freer, no longer confined by the shell it once lived in.

    And for those of us who have been hurt by people who are still alive, this metaphor still holds truth. Sometimes the version of someone we loved no longer exists. What’s left is a shell of who they used to be. And grieving that is real. Necessary. Valid.

    Healing doesn’t mean pretending the shell didn’t matter.

    It means understanding that life is more than what we can hold onto.

    If you’re hurting today—missing someone, mourning what was, or trying to make peace with loss—know this: you are not empty. You are not abandoned. And you are not broken beyond repair.

    You are still alive.

    Still moving.

    Still full.

    And one day, when you look back, you may realize that even in your pain, something holy was happening—your heart was learning how to carry love beyond the shell.

  • Silence is Strength: Mastering Emotional Resilience

    They think I don’t notice.

    The little jabs, the fake jokes, the sideways comments meant to cut me down in front of others.

    I notice everything. I just don’t react the way they want me to.

    See, weak people feed off attention. They need a crowd to validate them. That’s why they perform their insults like cheap entertainment. But I don’t play into that game. My silence makes them nervous. My calmness exposes their desperation.

    I don’t need to defend myself. I don’t need to clap back. The ones who matter already see the truth—and the ones who don’t, never mattered anyway.

    When someone tries to make me feel small, I let them reveal who they really are. And while they’re busy performing, I’m busy elevating. While they’re laughing, I’m building. While they’re loud, I’m focused.

    That’s the Sigma way:

    I don’t chase approval.

    I don’t bow to cheap ridicule.

    I don’t shrink to fit their narrative.

    I rise quietly. I grow silently. And by the time they realize I was never small… it’s too late

  • Inside The Fire

    I’m so mad. I feel it in every part of me—my chest, my stomach, my hands. It twists and burns, and I can’t shake it. I can’t say it, I can’t do anything about it, and that makes it worse. I just sit with it, letting it live inside me, heavy and real.

    Why does it feel so unfair? Why do the choices being made hurt the ones I love? I can’t fix it. I can’t control it. And that helplessness… it makes the anger even louder. It’s not just anger—it’s frustration, it’s hurt, it’s love screaming in silence.

    I replay it over and over in my head. I imagine saying things I’ll never say. I imagine standing up, demanding things, but the world doesn’t work that way. So the fire stays. It rages quietly. It’s mine. And I have to hold it without letting it break me.

    I pray in my own way, even when I don’t have words. I let this anger, this rawness, be carried by something bigger than me. Because if I hold it alone, it will destroy me.

    I am angry. I am frustrated. I am hurting. And I am still here. Breathing. Feeling. Holding on. That is enough.