Unseen Wounds

“Healing what they couldn’t see. Becoming who God always knew.”

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  • Unmasking Truth: Seeing Beyond The Surface

    We live in a world where everyone wears masks — some worn out of necessity, others out of fear.

    These masks blur the lines between who people really are and who they show to the world.

    Why is it so hard to see the truth in others?

    Because truth is messy.

    It’s wrapped in pain, shame, hope, and fear.

    It’s buried beneath years of stories they tell themselves and others.

    Sometimes, the truth is uncomfortable.

    It forces us to confront parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore.

    It challenges our judgments and assumptions.

    And so, we glance at the surface —

    the smiles, the anger, the silence —

    and decide that’s enough.

    We don’t dig deeper.

    We don’t ask the hard questions.

    We don’t listen beyond the noise.

    But what if we did?

    What if we paused our assumptions, lowered our defenses, and looked with open hearts?

    What if we allowed space for the cracks and the shadows, not just the polished image?

    To see the truth in others requires courage.

    Courage to be vulnerable.

    Courage to hold space for their pain without trying to fix it.

    Courage to love even when it’s hard.

    The truth in others is often hidden in their silence, their fears, their mistakes.

    It’s in the parts they try to hide, not the parts they proudly display.

    When we choose to see the whole — the broken and the beautiful —

    we create connection.

    We build bridges.

    We begin to heal.

    Reflection:

    • When was the last time you truly saw someone — beyond their surface?
    • How can you practice more empathy toward those whose truths are hidden?

  • Finding Your Voice: The Journey to Recognize Hidden Truths

    Why Can’t the Truth Be Seen — But Not the Truth?

    There’s a heavy kind of loneliness that comes from carrying a truth no one else seems to see.

    You speak it softly, shout it inside your mind, live it every day — but it passes like a ghost through the world around you.

    Why is it that the truth is often invisible?

    The truth doesn’t wear a bright sign.

    It isn’t wrapped neatly in words or packaged in a way others expect.

    Truth is jagged and messy.

    It’s the raw ache beneath the surface — the broken parts you hide.

    And sometimes, people don’t want to see it.

    Because truth is uncomfortable.

    It challenges what they believe, what they want to believe.

    It shakes their world.

    So they look away.

    They pretend it’s not there.

    They offer answers that don’t fit, labels that don’t heal, explanations that fall flat.

    But the truth remains.

    Living in silence.

    Waiting.

    Waiting for the day someone sees it —

    Not just the surface,

    Not just the version polished for public eyes,

    But the full, raw, unfiltered truth.

    Being unseen for your truth is a wound that cuts deep.

    It isolates you in your own story.

    It can make you question your own reality, your worth, your voice.

    But here’s the hard, beautiful truth:

    Your truth matters.

    Even if no one else sees it right now.

    It is real.

    It is valid.

    It is worthy of being held gently, told bravely, and honored deeply.

    If you feel unseen, unheard, misunderstood —

    Hold on.

    Keep breathing your truth into the quiet spaces.

    Keep living it fiercely, even when the world turns away.

    One day, the truth you carry will be the light that breaks through the darkness —

    For yourself, and for those who finally learn how to see.

    Reflection:

    • What truths are you carrying that feel invisible?
    • How can you honor your truth today, even if others don’t see it yet?

  • Healing Through Darkness: Finding Light in Pain

    I am the wound you try to hide —

    Not because I am small, but because I am enormous.

    I am the scream trapped beneath a smile,

    The bitter taste on your tongue that no water can wash away.

    I am the weight that crushes your chest at midnight,

    The tremor in your hands when the world feels too cruel to face.

    I am the ache that steals your voice,

    The shadow that clings to your every step.

    I do not soften with time.

    I do not quietly fade away.

    I flare, I burn, I bleed in silence.

    I am the knot in your throat,

    The cold sweat of dread before the phone rings,

    The memory that twists like a knife in your gut.

    I am the loneliness in a crowded room,

    The cold that no blanket can warm.

    I am the endless loop of what-ifs and whys,

    The poison running through your veins disguised as hope.

    But I am not your end.

    I am the fracture in your soul that lets the light in,

    The darkness that forces you to look up,

    The breaking point before the breakthrough.

    Hold me — if only for a moment.

    Look into the depth of me and see what lies beneath:

    Not just pain, but the seed of resurrection,

    Not just loss, but the path to reclaiming your breath.

    I am the pain.

    But I am also the pulse of your survival.

  • When Calls Bring Pain: Filling the Void with Prayer

    When He Calls, the Hole Reminds Me

    When the phone lights up with his name, I still feel it — that drop in my stomach, like someone pulled the floor out from under me.

    It’s not love.

    It’s not excitement.

    It’s the hole.

    The hole isn’t something I can point to on my body. It’s somewhere between my chest and my soul, the place where trust used to live.

    When he calls, the memories rush in. The laughter that wasn’t real. The promises he knew he wouldn’t keep. The way he stood there, silent, when I was bleeding in places no one else could see.

    I used to answer. Not because I wanted him back, but because part of me hoped this time would be different — that he’d finally say the words that would pour into that empty place and fill it again. But every call ended the same way: the hole was still there. Sometimes even bigger.

    That’s when God started whispering to me — “He can’t fill what he broke. That’s my work.”

    And I realized… I had been holding my phone like it was a lifeline, when the real lifeline was already in my hands: prayer.

    I stopped answering. I started kneeling instead. I told God about the hole, the ache, the longing, and the anger. And slowly, His presence began to fill places I thought would always be empty.

    So now, when he calls, I don’t crumble.

    I remember — the hole doesn’t belong to him anymore.

    It belongs to God, and God is the only one who knows how to make it whole.

    Quote to End:

    “When he calls, the hole no longer answers — my healing does.”

  • Finding Strength After Heartbreak: A Journey of Self-Discovery

    You never think the person you love will become the one who teaches you how to live without them.

    I didn’t, at least.

    I thought love was enough — that if you gave your whole heart, they’d hold it carefully forever. But sometimes, people don’t leave because they stop loving you. Sometimes, they leave because they don’t know how to love themselves… and they take pieces of you on their way out.

    The first time he left, it felt like my chest caved in.

    I remember standing in the doorway, my hand still holding the frame, watching him walk away like it was the easiest thing in the world. No pause. No looking back. Just the sound of his footsteps growing fainter until the silence swallowed me whole.

    The days after were the hardest. I woke up to an empty side of the bed, the sheets still holding the ghost of his shape. My coffee tasted bitter, not because I made it wrong, but because there was no laughter across the table to sweeten it. I scrolled through my phone, half-hoping for a text that never came. Every song on the radio became a reminder. Every familiar place felt like a wound.

    I told myself I was fine, but the truth was, I wasn’t. I felt broken. Lost. Unworthy. The kind of pain that makes you want to curl up and disappear.

    But here’s what no one tells you about heartbreak: pain has a way of introducing you to yourself.

    In that silence, I started to hear things I’d ignored for years. My own thoughts. My own needs. My own voice. I began journaling at night, pouring out every hurt, every “why me?” and “what did I do wrong?” But slowly, my words changed. I stopped asking why he left and started asking what I needed. I stopped blaming myself and started forgiving myself.

    One evening, I took a walk — just me, the cool breeze, and the fading sun. And for the first time, I noticed how beautiful the world still was. How the sky didn’t dim just because he was gone. I realized I could stand here, breathing in this moment, without him — and still feel whole.

    When he came back the second time, I wasn’t the same woman. I wasn’t desperate for his presence. I wasn’t willing to shrink myself to keep him. And when he left again — because he did — it didn’t shatter me. It shaped me.

    Now I understand:

    Strength doesn’t come from people staying.

    It comes from surviving their absence.

    Every time he walked away, I found another part of myself worth keeping. Every time the door closed behind him, it opened a new one in me. And now, when he leaves, I don’t beg. I don’t chase. I don’t lose myself.

    I stand. I breathe. I rise.

    Because his leaving is no longer the end of my story.

    It’s just the start of another chapter — one where I am stronger, wiser, and more in love with myself than ever before.

  • Confronting Ghosts: Finding Peace in Emotional Truths

    Fighting With What Is Not Him

    I wasn’t fighting him—

    I was wrestling a ghost

    Wearing his face.

    A shadow stitched

    From fragments of who I hoped he’d become.

    He stood there,

    Empty eyes in a body present

    But never with me.

    I reached for warmth

    And held onto frost.

    I kept rewriting the silence,

    Turning his absence into mystery,

    His coldness into depth.

    But I was dancing with smoke,

    Choking on my own hope.

    I wasn’t arguing with words he spoke,

    But with the quiet between them.

    I wasn’t grieving what I lost—

    I was grieving what never was.

    He didn’t leave me.

    He was never really there.

    I built a love

    Out of puzzle pieces that didn’t fit.

    Named it fate,

    Called it divine timing,

    All to avoid the truth:

    I was fighting with what is not him.

    And so, I stop.

    No more swinging fists at wind.

    No more bleeding for the promise

    Of someone who never held me wholly.

    I bury the illusion.

    Not the man—

    But the mirror I held up to him,

    The one that reflected only

    What I needed to see.

    This is not bitterness.

    It’s clarity.

    And maybe that’s where healing begins—

    In choosing peace

    Over pretending.

  • When the Pain is Too Heavy: A Soulful Conversation About Suicidal Thoughts

    There was a night not too long ago when I found myself sitting in the dark, phone in hand, staring at a message I didn’t send. I typed it out three times. Backspaced. Typed it again. I didn’t want to scare anyone—I just wanted someone to know that I wasn’t okay.

    But the truth?

    I didn’t even know how to explain what I was feeling. I just knew I felt… empty.

    It wasn’t a loud cry for help.

    It was a quiet ache that had been building for months.

    💔 

    This is what suicidal thoughts looked like for me:

    • Smiling on the outside while screaming on the inside.
    • Serving everyone else’s needs while silently drowning in mine.
    • Going to bed praying I wouldn’t wake up—not because I wanted to die, but because I didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

    I thought I was just “being dramatic.”

    That maybe I was just tired, or hormonal, or sensitive.

    But the truth was deeper: I was in pain. Soul-deep pain. And I didn’t know how to talk about it without feeling like a burden.

    🧠 

    Suicidal thoughts aren’t always loud. Sometimes they’re just whispers:

    • “What’s the point?”
    • “I’m so tired.”
    • “They’d be better off without me.”
    • “I don’t feel anything anymore.”

    And if you’ve ever thought those things, let me tell you something that no one said to me when I needed it most:

    You are not broken. You are overwhelmed. And overwhelm can be helped.

    🙏🏽 

    What saved me?

    Honestly… it wasn’t a single moment.

    It was small, quiet decisions. Choosing to text a friend even when I felt ashamed. Letting someone pray for me even though I didn’t feel worthy. Whispering “God, help me,” even when I didn’t know if He was listening.

    And somehow, help did come.

    Not all at once—but gently. Slowly. Through people. Through words. Through grace I didn’t think I deserved.

    🕊️ 

    If you’re feeling this right now—please hear me:

    You are not too far gone.

    You are not invisible.

    You are not the only one who’s ever felt this way.

    You are someone’s answered prayer.

    You are still becoming.

    Please don’t make a permanent decision over a temporary pain.

    📞 

    Take the next small step. Even if your hands are shaking.

    • Reach out to someone safe.
    • Call or text 988 (if you’re in the U.S.)
    • Go sit with someone who doesn’t need you to be perfect.
    • Let someone walk you back into the light.

    ✨ 

    Final Words for the Soul That’s Tired

    You don’t have to be strong every day.

    You don’t have to carry it alone.

    And you don’t need to wait until you “have it all together” to be loved.

    You are not here by accident.

    Your life matters.

    You still have pages to write.

    You still have people to love and be loved by.

    You still have sunrises to witness, laughter to feel, and healing to embrace.

    And I pray—right here, right now—that this blog post becomes the soft voice that reminds you:

    Stay. Breathe. Let someone in. The world is not better without you. It is better with you healing.

  • Embracing Vulnerability in Relationships

    The Moment I Let Go

    There was a night I thought would change everything.

    I had finally reached a point where I felt safe enough to let my guard down. Safe enough to give myself—not just in the physical sense, but in that deeper, soul-bearing way that only happens when you believe you’re truly seen.

    We were close, bodies entwined, but it wasn’t just about that. I remember the way I breathed him in. The way I softened. The way I moaned—not out of performance, not to impress, but because in that moment, I wasn’t holding back.

    That sound came from trust. From vulnerability.

    It said, “I’m here, fully. I’m not pretending.”

    The Shift I Couldn’t Ignore

    But afterward…

    something shifted.

    He didn’t say anything cruel. He didn’t pull away in a dramatic way. That might’ve been easier. Instead, it was subtle.

    He got up like nothing sacred had happened.

    No tenderness in his eyes. No weight in his silence.

    Just… nothing.

    And suddenly I realized:

    If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been someone else.

    Anyone else who gave him that sound, that softness, that surrender.

    He wasn’t responding to me.

    He was responding to the feeling I gave him.

    And that broke something in me.

    When You Feel Like Everything—and Nothing

    I felt used, but not in the way most people imagine.

    I wasn’t discarded like trash.

    I was just never actually held as something sacred to begin with.

    I had been received, but not revered.

    Consumed, not cherished.

    Desired, but not deeply chosen.

    And in that realization, I felt like I had given everything… and somehow became nothing to him.

    🧠 What I’ve Learned Since

    I now understand that not everyone who touches you deserves access to your softness.

    Not everyone who holds your body can hold your soul.

    Not every moan is heard as the language of trust—it’s often mistaken for permission, or worse, possession.

    But I also learned this:

    My softness is not the problem.

    It is a gift—one that must be honored, not just used.

    💬 Let’s Talk

    Have you ever given someone the most honest, sacred version of yourself—only to realize they couldn’t receive it?

    Do you ever wonder if they responded to you, or just the feeling you gave them?

    Here are a few questions to reflect on (or answer in the comments):

    • Have I ever mistaken desire for care?
    • Did I ever lower my boundaries thinking I was finally safe?
    • How can I tell the difference between being wanted and being valued?

    🌱 In the End…

    Healing came slowly, but it came.

    I stopped blaming myself for feeling deeply.

    I stopped shrinking the way I express love.

    And I started requiring emotional presence—not just physical attention.

    Next time I let someone in, it’ll be someone who sees all of me.

    Who knows the sound of my trust… and treats it like sacred ground.

    Because I was never “too much.”

    He was just never enough.

  • Invisible Struggles: You’re Not Alone

    Introduction: The Battle No One Sees

    We don’t talk enough about the kind of pain that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside — the kind that lives in the small, invisible moments.

    Like when you’re giving life everything you’ve got… and it still feels like you’re falling short.

    This post is for that kind of struggle.

    The one where your effort is real — but the progress feels invisible.

    The one where you’re still showing up, even when you’re barely holding on.

    Because I’ve been there.

    When Effort Feels Like It’s Not Enough

    There was a season of my life when I was giving everything I had — emotionally, mentally, spiritually — and still, I felt like I was drowning.

    I would wake up, take a deep breath, and whisper to myself, “Just get through the next hour.”

    I went to work. I returned messages. I smiled when I needed to.

    But the truth?

    Every day felt like a quiet war inside my chest.

    And I kept wondering:

    “Why does it still feel so hard if I’m doing everything right?”

    The Hidden Weight of Trying

    Sometimes struggling doesn’t look like falling apart.

    Sometimes it looks like:

    • Holding it together with shaking hands
    • Showing up with a smile that feels too heavy
    • Pushing through conversations while your mind screams for quiet
    • Trying to believe in hope while dragging behind a heart that feels empty

    No one applauds you for these things.

    They don’t show up on your resume.

    But they count. They matter.

    You’re Not Weak. You’re Human.

    Here’s what I had to learn — and maybe you do too:

    🖤 Struggling doesn’t mean you’re failing.

    🖤 Trying your best doesn’t mean things will magically be easy.

    🖤 Feeling tired doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.

    You’re human.

    You’re carrying a lot.

    You’re allowed to feel the weight of it — and still be proud of yourself for holding it at all.

    You Don’t Have to Be Okay to Keep Going

    You don’t have to win today.

    You don’t have to be at 100%.

    You don’t even have to feel strong.

    Sometimes, trying your best means:

    • Getting out of bed when you want to stay hidden
    • Sending a single text when the silence feels safer
    • Breathing through the ache instead of giving up

    Even that is effort. Even that is sacred.

    A Personal Note: I See You

    If you’re here right now, barely hanging on — I want you to know something:

    You’re doing better than you think.

    You are seen.

    You are not alone in this quiet, aching effort.

    I know what it’s like to feel like no one understands how hard it is to just keep going.

    But I also know this:

    The fact that you’re still trying, even in the struggle, is a kind of courage no one can take from you.

    Let’s Talk (Call to Action)

    💬 Have you ever had a season where you were trying your best… and still struggling?

    💬 What helped you hold on, even when nothing felt okay?

    Drop a comment, a heart, or even just “me too.”

    Your words might be the light someone else needs to hear today.

    You’re Still Here — And That Means Everything

    You may not see the finish line.

    You may not feel strong.

    But you are still breathing. Still showing up. Still trying.

    And that?

    That’s more than enough.

    🖤

  • Crawling Through Pain: Embracing Your Struggles

    When You Can’t Find the Words for the Pain

    There was a night I won’t forget — not because of a sudden tragedy, but because of the stillness.

    I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even move.

    I just lay there on the floor. The carpet against my skin felt far away, like I wasn’t fully in my body.

    And as I was laying on the floor, it felt like numbness overcame my body. Not just physical — it was emotional, spiritual, total.

    I wasn’t asleep, but I wasn’t really awake either. I was suspended in a fog, disconnected from everything — even myself. The weight inside me was unbearable, yet I felt nothing at all. That kind of numbness doesn’t comfort. It suffocates.

    It was as if my soul had gone quiet, whispering, “I can’t carry this anymore.”

    The Battle No One Sees

    To the outside world, I looked fine. I showed up. I smiled when I was supposed to. I answered messages with a “lol” and a heart emoji. But inside, I was crawling — inching through a storm no one could see.

    I didn’t know how to explain the exhaustion. The shame. The feeling of being broken in a place that even I couldn’t find. I was surrounded by people but felt completely alone.

    This is the painful truth about mental and emotional struggles: they’re often invisible.

    And I know I’m not alone in this.

    According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), nearly 1 in 5 adults in the U.S. experience mental illness each year. Many of us walk around silently suffering, afraid to speak up, afraid of being judged — or worse, not being believed.

    Crawling Is Still Moving

    The image of crawling used to feel weak to me. Like failure. Like falling apart.

    But now? I see it differently.

    Crawling is still movement. Still survival. It’s the slow, gritty act of choosing to keep going, even when everything inside you wants to stop.

    I remember a specific day I couldn’t get out of bed. I texted a friend just three words: “I feel numb.” She didn’t try to fix me. She didn’t offer clichés. She just said, “I’m here. Let’s breathe together.”

    That text was my rope back to the surface. Not because it solved everything — but because I was seen.

    You Are Not Weak. You Are Brave.

    If you’re crawling right now, I want you to know:

    You are not weak.

    You are not broken.

    You are brave.

    The fact that you’ve made it to this sentence, reading these words, means you’re still here — still fighting.

    Some days, progress looks like getting out of bed.

    Other days, it looks like drinking water or sending a single message.

    And sometimes, progress is simply staying alive when you didn’t think you could.

    That is bravery. That is strength.

    Let’s Talk: You’re Not Alone Here

    I want this space to feel like a soft landing place — not just for my story, but for yours too.

    💬 Have you ever felt like you were crawling through a dark season?

    💬 What helped you take even the smallest step forward?

    💬 Do you have a practice, quote, or song that gave you light when things felt heavy?

    Please share your story in the comments. You don’t have to have the perfect words. You just have to be real. Your story could be the lifeline someone else is reaching for.

    If you’re in the middle of your own silent struggle, please don’t walk through it alone.

    Final Words: Keep Crawling, Keep Breathing

    I know what it’s like to crawl. To feel like even breathing takes effort. But I promise you — every small movement matters.

    The floor isn’t the end.

    The numbness isn’t forever.

    The darkness isn’t your destination.

    Keep crawling. Keep breathing. One day, you will look back and realize:

    The version of you that crawled through hell is the reason you’re still standing.

    And that… is power.