I never wanted a story that includes anxiety and depression. I never imagined I’d write sentences with words like “panic attack,” “abuse,” or “shame.” I wanted a neat and tidy story. Something I could fold and tuck away like a well-written testimony for a women’s Bible study or a perfectly captioned Instagram post.

But what I got was real life — and real life is messy.

Real life is the story I never wanted, a story with chapters I still hesitate to open in public. Like the years I was terrified of failing as a mom because I struggled with anger. Or the nights I laid awake, rehearsing conversations I was too afraid to have. Or the mornings I woke up and wondered why God had let things unravel the way He did.

There was a time I didn’t want to tell my story because I didn’t like that it included spiritual wounds, or the slow unpacking of emotional baggage I didn’t know I was carrying. I didn’t want to write about being a people-pleaser so tethered to external approval that I lost my voice somewhere in the process. I didn’t want a story about financial setbacks, or apologizing to my kids for the ways I parented from fear instead of faith.

But, here’s something I’ve learned: We don’t get to pick the plot, but we do get to choose whether we let God be the Author.

In Isaiah 61:3 (NIV), God promises to bestow, “A crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” That promise has become my lifeline in the past few years. Not because everything in my life has been redeemed or wrapped up with a neat bow, but because even in the middle of the story, God is faithful.

I used to think I had to wait until everything made sense before I could share my story. Yet, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that God doesn’t waste our broken parts. Especially not the broken parts.

Psalm 34:18 (ESV) says, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” And I’ve seen this up close. In the counseling office where I finally told the truth about my childhood trauma. In the journal pages where I scratched out prayers that sounded more like desperate pleas. In the long walks and whispered apologies to my kids, when I didn’t get it right but wanted to do better.

Sometimes the most sacred place in our story is the one where we realize God is still writing . . . and we don’t have to rush to the ending.

Maybe your story feels disappointing, too. Maybe you thought you’d be further along, more healed, less messy. Maybe you’ve wondered if the parts of your life that feel untellable are just too broken to ever be beautiful. 

Friend, your story is still being written and rewritten.

You don’t have to love every chapter to believe God is working. You don’t have to share every detail to know He’s redeeming the narrative. And you don’t have to wait until it all makes sense to start telling the truth.

God, in His grace, whispers, “You’re not disqualified. You’re not too late. You’re not too much.” One of the most radical things we can do is to stop editing our stories to make them palatable and instead invite others into this grace that meets us right where we are.

Maybe our real testimony isn’t about being impressive. Maybe it’s about being honest. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding the pages we’d rather skip and start reading them aloud with a trembling voice and an open heart. Because there’s a woman out there who needs to hear your story to know she’s not alone.

And there’s a Savior who isn’t waiting for your perfection — just your permission to keep writing your story and rewriting your story.

Leave a Comment