I was bitter.

Not the kind of bitterness that passes with time, like the sting of a harsh word or the ache of a forgotten promise. No, mine was deeper. It had settled into my bones, made a home in my chest, and whispered lies into my ears until I believed them. I was petrified in doubt, paralyzed by the weight of my own thoughts. I wore misery like a second skin, familiar and suffocating. It was easier to stay there than to hope for something better.

I had convinced myself that this was my portion. That the silence I felt from heaven was proof of abandonment. That my prayers were too broken to be heard. I didn’t just feel lost—I felt unworthy of being found.

But then, something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning bolt. No booming voice from the clouds. Just a quiet invitation. A whisper in the stillness. A nudge in the direction of grace.

I took a walk with Jesus.

Not a literal walk, though I suppose it could have been. It was more like a journey inward—a slow, deliberate turning of my heart toward something I had long resisted. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have the right words. But I showed up. And that was enough.

He met me there.

With patience. With kindness. With a love that didn’t flinch at my bitterness or recoil from my shame. He didn’t scold me for the walls I had built or the lies I had believed. He simply began to show me—gently, persistently—how foolish those thoughts were. How they had robbed me of peace. How they had distorted the truth.

He reminded me that the walk we were on together didn’t have to end.

That He wasn’t going anywhere.

That even when I had turned away, He had stayed.

And slowly, I began to comprehend something I had only ever grasped at before. A truth that had once felt like a distant echo now rang clear and strong in my soul:

I fear God alone.

Not in the way I had feared rejection or failure or loneliness. Not the kind of fear that cripples. But the kind that liberates. The kind that humbles and heals. The kind that brings clarity to chaos and light to darkness.

And Lord, what a wonderful feeling that brings.

To fear God is to recognize His holiness. His power. His mercy. It’s to stand in awe of a love so vast it defies comprehension. It’s to surrender—not out of obligation, but out of reverence. Out of trust.

This gift—this grace, this presence, this peace—is not one I deserve.

I know that.

I’ve wrestled with that truth. I’ve tried to earn it, justify it, explain it away. But it remains. Undeserved. Unconditional. Unrelenting.

He still gave it to me.

And now, all I want is to share it.

To empty my cup. To pour out what He’s poured into me. To get out of His way and let Him work. To be a vessel, not a barrier. To be a mirror, not a mask.

I want my life to reflect His goodness. Not just in the mountaintop moments, but in the valleys. In the mundane. In the messy. I want my bitterness to become a testimony. A reminder that grace doesn’t require perfection—only surrender.

I want to tell the ones who feel forgotten that they are seen.

To tell the ones who feel broken that they are beloved.

To tell the ones who feel bitter that healing is possible.

Because I’ve lived it.

I’ve felt the sting of despair and the balm of mercy. I’ve walked through the fire and found refuge in His arms. I’ve doubted, and I’ve been held. I’ve resisted, and I’ve been pursued.

And now, I write this not as someone who has arrived, but as someone who is still walking.

Still learning.

Still being transformed.

Bitterness may have been my beginning, but it is not my end.

Grace rewrote my story.

And every day, I choose to live in that truth.

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