What’s Okay For You Might Not Be Okay For Me || sexual assault

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I’m here for the people who unwillingly consented to sexual acts because they were in a situation where it was “normal” or where they felt like they didn’t have the right to say no and now they feel violated but don’t feel like they can say so because what happened “wasn’t a big deal.”

I’m here for anyone and everyone who has felt taken advantage of in a sexual manner but isn’t taken seriously because we live in a hook-up culture where apparently those sort of interactions should at least be expected when on a date.

Some people have certain experiences and are totally okay with what happened. That’s great for them and they can do with their bodies what they want.

BUT some people have those exact same experiences and it traumatizes them. They feel violated and taken advantage of.

And that experience is just as valid as the first.

We all react to things differently and experience things differently because we are all different people with unique emotions and histories and boundaries.

What might be okay for you might not be okay for me.

What matters is how a situation affects the person that experienced it, not how the same situation affects someone else.

No one can change your narrative for you.

If you experience something and you feel violated, you’re allowed to feel that way even if someone else feels differently.

Your truth is your truth. No one can take that.

Not even the person who violated you. They may not have had bad intentions, but you were affected negatively by what they did. What you experienced is your truth, even if it wasn’t the other person’s intent.

You were affected, and that fact alone is enough.

Experiences are relative which can make lines blurry and confusing and messy, but your view of your experience isn’t wrong because it is YOUR experience, not the violator’s or your friends’ or anyone else’s experience.

No one can tell you how to feel.

No one can tell you that your body wasn’t taken advantage of.

No one can tell you that you aren’t allowed to feel assaulted.

No matter if you said no,

if you stayed silent,

if you said yes because you were afraid,

if you fought,

if you didn’t move,

if you pretended to be okay with it because all you know of men is anger and you’ll do what you have to do to avoid that.

It doesn’t matter how you reacted to the assault because you shouldn’t have to ask someone to not assault you.

It’s not no means no.

It’s yes means yes.

Just because you didn’t say “no” or “stop” or “I don’t want to” doesn’t put you at fault.

The other person should know to get affirmative consent before even touching you.

Our culture has normalized hook-ups to the point that it’s just assumed that if you’re on a date then you want to. And I’m sorry, but I’m so not here for that.

I’ve had people tell me that I need to be up front with my date and tell them at the beginning that I don’t want to do anything sexual.

Great idea,

except I shouldn’t have to actively put in effort in order to not get assaulted.

I should be able to assume and feel safe in the fact that nothing sexual will happen unless we’ve agreed upon it first, not assume that hooking up is a “go for it” unless someone vocalizes ahead of time that they don’t want to.

Let’s teach people to ask for affirmative consent instead of teaching people to share preventative PSAs before the date has even begun.

Because a meaningless hook-up for one person could be assault for another.

I get it, it’s culture. But since when do we buy into culture that we don’t like instead of trying to change it?

Because I need it changed for me.

I went on a date this summer. I didn’t tell him ahead of time that I didn’t want to hook up, because why should I have to actively work to not be assaulted? I didn’t say no when he pushed me on the ground, because how was I supposed to know how he’d react at being turned down after he was already on top of me? I tried to act normal after everything happened, because how the heck was I supposed to inform him that he just violated me (as if he shouldn’t have already known)?

I didn’t do any of the things you’re “supposed” to do, because I found myself in a fast-moving situation that I did not want to be in and was so scared I couldn’t use my voice.

I didn’t do what I was “supposed” to do, and I was still assaulted.

It was a first date, and no consent was asked for or given. I really cannot comprehend how it would have been remotely assumed that I wanted to hook up with him, because let me assure you, I was not vibing with him at all and I definitely was making that clear.

I have friends who have had the exact same experiences on dates and they feel the way I do, but they’ve been shamed into silence about it in the same way that I have [until now] because “hook-ups are normal.”

I’ve also had other friends have the exact same experiences on dates as we did and yet they loved it, because both parties went into the date wanting to hook up.

Their narrative isn’t my narrative.

And that’s okay, and all of our experiences are still truth.

So basically, I’m really, really not here for people telling me that my perception of my experience is wrong. No one can sit here and tell me that what happened was okay if I didn’t (and still don’t) feel okay about it.

It might have been okay for you.

But it wasn’t for me.

And you can’t tell me (or anyone else) how to react to their experiences.

If they felt violated, they were violated. End of story. No matter the intent or the circumstances. If someone feels like they don’t have control of their body or what is happening to them, that is enough to be considered assault.

“Other people do not get to tell me what my experience means, or where they would like to place me in their pantheons of suffering. There is great danger in letting those around you determine what your experience means to you, and I have found that one of the best ways to combat that is to keep my story for myself.”

–Zoë Medeiros, “Why I Stopped” from Not That Bad


Edit on 08/09/2018 at 12:27am: This blog post was originally titled “Normalizing Hook-Up Culture = Normalizing Sexual Assault,” but has now been changed after realizing the negative connotation that that title carried in regards to consensual hooking up and casual sex. While within my post it is easy to see my point, the title does not leave much context and can be assumed that I’m saying people should not hook up because it is the same as assault. This is definitely not the case, and my point was that the culture of hooking up really enforces the idea that hooking up should be EXPECTED on a date, instead of discussed about. By all means, do what you want with your body and hook up on dates if you want to, I make that clear in my post. I’m just saying that the normalization of the expectation of hooking up without asking first is what can lead to assault because then what happened is “acceptable” so that means that the assault “wasn’t assault,” no matter what the survivor thinks.

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Healing is Exhaling

521c44d8e7bad3d6c5e242e7641c1fa1Dear You,

I see you. I see you fighting to take that next breath. I know that it feels like all the wind has been knocked out of you. There’s so much pressure from the void inside your chest that it feels physically impossible to breathe. But you can.

I know that telling you that you are able to breathe doesn’t help. It’s like telling a person who’s drowning to just swim. But I want you to know that you aren’t weak. You aren’t a victim to this. You have power. You are strong. You can control so much of your story.

Whatever it is isn’t bigger than you. I know that you feel small. I know that you feel like you can’t possibly change anything. What’s the point in trying to heal if it’s always going to loom over you? I promise you, it’s not always going to be there. It doesn’t have to at least.

Small steps become a huge long road that you’ve traveled. You might just be barely shuffling your feet, but soon you’re going to look back and you’re going to be one foot, five feet, fifty feet, one mile, two miles, twenty miles from where you started. That one small step might hurt like hell and it might feel like it won’t make a difference, but soon you’ll look back and think wow, I’m glad I took that step.

You gotta heal for you. This thing that is haunting you is only affecting you. Sure, what’s hurting you has somewhat of an effect on the people around you because they care for you, but they’re not the ones waking up in a sweat from a nightmare, having a panic attack when they’re alone in the car, or leaving class early when something triggers it. They’re not affected in the same way that you are, because they are not living what you are living.

I know that you wanna heal for your best friend, your boyfriend, your family, your whoever so that they don’t worry about you. It shows so much of your heart and character that you want to care for them, but that isn’t true healing. That’s just people-pleasing. And that will be the death of you. Probably not your physical, literal death, but it’ll be the death of your real, life-altering healing. 

If you try to heal just so you can please someone else, you aren’t healing. You might feel like you are, but really, you’re just stuffing everything under the rug, placing a coffee table on top of it, and pretending that there aren’t lumps underneath. It might feel okay, but one day you’re going to go to redecorate your living room and you’re going to move that coffee table and rug and everything is going to come right back out.

Healing has to be for you. And you’re the only one who can heal yourself. Your friends can’t heal you; your therapist can’t heal you (WHAT I know isn’t that what you pay them for??). You and God are going to be the only two players on this team against the darkness. But hey, that’s more than enough. Your loved ones will be cheering you on from the sidelines, but you gotta fight this one yourself.

You’re more than capable of this. Whatever it is, someone else has fought the same battle before you. They made it through, and so will you. It won’t be easy, it probably won’t be quick, but it’ll be worth it. 

Real healing, the kind that takes time and uncomfortable effort, is glorious. It’s unlike life that you have ever known. It’s like exhaling a breath that you’ve been holding your entire life.

You can breathe again and finally just be.

This healing is yours.

It’s waiting for you.

It has your name on it.

It’ll hurt at times, but it’ll also be kind and gentle. You can go at your own pace.

Just please, begin.

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Healing Started (even though it didn’t feel like it)

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For this blog post I will be following the same format as “What I Do Know” because #relatable. 


I’m not exactly sure how it all started.

I remember sitting on my boyfriend’s bed. Looking at a four year calendar, trying to plan where we’d fit a wedding in between college graduations and grad school beginnings and moves away from Nashville (NC, I’m coming for you!).

Our talk of marriage led to talk of children.

I wanted to adopt. He didn’t. We had had this conversation before. This time was different. The conversation escalated to “I don’t think it’s fair that you get to plan the rest of our lives based off of the fact that you refuse to deal with your trauma.” What? I had dealt with my trauma. It had been 15 years. I’m fine. I’m never having sex and that’s fine and normal. Leave me alone.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but things got hard. My nightmares that were a rare occasion (maybe once a month) became every night. I pulled myself away. I missed class and work and church because all I could do was lay in bed and stare at the wall.

If I left my room I wanted to be in the baggiest clothes possible. Maybe hiding my body would protect me from the abuse that I was sure would happen again. If a boy even looked at me, I cried. Johnson 374 quickly became the only four walls I saw everyday.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but one night I wrote my roommate a note. “I can’t hold this story inside me any longer. Can I tell you what happened?”

She sat in her bed. I made her face the wall. I sat in my bed, under every blanket I owned, and told her my story. I cried. I shook. My voice quaked. But I told my story.

Afterwards I walked on my desk over to her bed (best pathway to get over there). She hugged me. I cried more. I felt exposed and vulnerable and dirty, but I felt truly seen for the first time.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but my medicine stopped working. My low dose antidepressant and anti-anxiety meds could no longer stand up to the strong emotions that trauma brought on.

I became manic.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but I drove to Kentucky one day without telling anyone where I was going.

I fell back into the same coping mechanism that I used when I first remembered the abuse when I was 13.

I cut for the first time since 2014.

I don’t know what I was trying to do. I don’t know if I was trying to numb my pain, or if I was trying to feel something. I don’t know. I don’t know if I was in so much pain that everything hurt, or if I was in so much pain that nothing hurt. I don’t know. But tearing apart my skin made everything stop, even if just for a moment.

It gave me a second to catch my breath, only to leave me suffocating even more just moments later. But the second was enough.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but I tried to kill myself.

All I could do was feel his hands. I wanted out of my body. I wanted it to all just stop.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but I drove myself to the psychiatric hospital.

My roommate sat with me in the waiting room for three hours as we talked to doctor after doctor. We tried to joke, we took stupid pictures to “commemorate the moment,” and we called two of my other best friends, but it was heavy.

One of the hardest moments was when they came and told me that they were ready to take me upstairs. Kayley and I stood up. She promised she’d go straight back to the dorm and bring me clothes and toiletries and my journal. We hugged. I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to be left alone. This drop-off was a heck of a lot harder than the Carolina House drop-off.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but I spent the next five days in the mood unit of the psychiatric hospital.

I journaled. I colored. I sat through stupid, unhelpful groups. I made friends. I joked and laughed and rolled my eyes at other patients. I watched way too much tv. I  sat on the window sill and eaves-dropped on too many conversations between the nurses.

My friends visited. My boyfriend, my roommate, my CH bestie, my old RAs. They brought my favorite foods so I didn’t have to eat gross hospital food. They loved me so well. They were tangible representations of Jesus and how he comes when we are broken and loves us just the same.

One night was hard. I wanted to cut. I doodled on my thighs as a way to calm my anxiety. I had written “I really want to cut right now, but I am not going to” in big letters across my leg. My nurse saw what I was doing. He brought me more pens. “I thought you might want some more colors. You’re being really brave right now, you know. Keep it up.”

My doctors changed my medicine. Things were looking up. I wasn’t feeling suicidal anymore. I felt sad and overwhelmed, but I just wanted out of those white hospital walls.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but I discharged from the hospital.

It was exam week. I almost made it through the week. I went to work, studied my butt off, and took my exams. I took my new medicine. I went to my appointments. But I cried a lot. And I stayed in bed a lot.

I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but my relationships began to fall apart.

It hurt. It was hard. It still is. Those relationships still aren’t here, and if they are, they aren’t the same as they were.

Everything happened so quick. Fifteen years of brick walls enforced with steel crumbled in the matter of weeks. I’m not exactly sure how it all started.

Except I do know how it all started.

It started when I was five.

It started behind my church.

It started when I was thirteen.

It started in the alcove of my bedroom, having a panic attack remembering what happened, convincing myself that it would happen again.

It started when I was fifteen.

It started when I decided I would adopt kids, because I was [am] too afraid of sex. I never wanted my body to be that vulnerable again.

It started when I was seventeen.

It started when I entered my first relationship and had to choose–will I deal with my trauma or stuff it down? I chose to stuff it down.

It started when I was eighteen.

It started when I woke up sobbing at Carolina House because I had my first nightmare of trauma, thanks to my brain being nourished and coming alive again.

It started when I was twenty.

It started when my boyfriend confronted me about my trauma.

It started when I became so sad that I stopped eating and going to classes.

It started when I wanted to keep the lights off all day, even though my roommate and I used to argue about how I wanted the lights on all the time.

It started when my medicine stopped working, but I was too scared to go to my male psychiatrist to get a medication change.

It started when I went to Walgreens and bought a blade for the first time in almost four years.

It started when I swallowed too many pills.

It started when I stopped sharing my location services with my friends.

It started when I knew the psych hospital was the only thing that would keep me alive through the weekend.

I know how the pain started.

But something else started–healing.

Healing started.

Healing started when I became angry with my boyfriend for bringing up my trauma, but later realized he was right.

Healing started when I let my story cross my lips for the first time to my roommate.

Healing started when I signed up for a Bible class the following semester taught by a professor whose doctoral thesis was on sexual abuse and how that affects faith.

Healing started when I signed up to begin trauma therapy.

Healing started when I got rid of my blades (again, and again, and again).

Healing started when I texted someone when I felt unsafe with my thoughts.

Healing started when I began searching for a new psychiatrist.

Healing started when I drove with P!nk’s “I Am Here” blasting.

Healing started when #MeToo happened.

Healing started when I read Rupi Kaur’s poetry.

Healing started when I decided that I needed to go to the hospital.

Healing started when I chose to eat at the hospital, despite a nurse upon learning about my eating disorder telling me “I can get you some fruit” because she assumed I would want that instead of the mac n cheese.

Healing started when I drew on my legs instead of cutting.

Healing started when I sat on the window sill and colored with my wacky shack friends.

Healing started when I discharged and came home.

Healing started when I was gentle with myself.

Healing started when I actually studied for my finals.

Healing started when I cried when my boyfriend broke up with me.

Healing started when I went to work the next day.

Healing started when I didn’t cut from heartbreak.

Healing started when I decided to live, despite all odds.

Healing started when I decided that staying was worth it.

Healing started when I decided that what happened fifteen years ago was not going to have a say in my future.

Healing started when I chose me.

Healing is still happening.

If we’re being honest, I still haven’t begun trauma work. I had to get stable on my medicines before I could. But I’m starting soon. And I’m scared. But I’m choosing life.

It’ll be hard and it’ll hurt. But I’m not going to try to destroy myself as a way to cope. I’m choosing to live, no matter the pain in the progress, because I’m choosing to believe that healing IS possible.

I haven’t believed that my whole life. I thought it wasn’t meant for me.

But I’m going to make it meant for me.

Healing is mine.

Healing started. Healing is happening.

Healing is going to be how my story ends.

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God’s Gonna Heal That

0dae0248249bb6069d07035bbe25c90a12 days into it, and 2018 has already been a year of hurt. But I decided on December 31 that 2018 was going to be a year of healing, and here I am on January 12 still proclaiming that.

My motto for this year is “God’s gonna heal that.”

I feel it in my bones/soul/very core that this year is the year of healing from trauma.

Maybe chalk that up to the vulnerability and beauty that is the #MeToo campaign, or inspiring friends who have walked the path before you and are willing to walk it with you, or the wake-up call of broken relationships due to your denial/fear of healing, but whatever the reason, healing is coming.

It’s going to be messy and hard and there’s no perfect way to do it.

I’m going to want to quit, but I luckily have a killer support system of strong women who will push me and challenge me when needed, but also be gentle and patient in other moments.

Despite how it feels, I’m not alone in this.

Millions of people have walked this path before me (as sad as that is).

I am not alone.

Healing is coming.

It’ll hurt, it’ll be hard, it’ll suck so bad.

But it’s coming.

And it’s going to be beautiful and glorious.

Last night I decided to sit down and make a game plan for myself. It’s been quite a week with lots of big decisions being made regarding this healing process, so I decided to set goals for myself and made plans for how I’m going to make this happen, because gosh darn it, I’m going to heal from this in 2018 no matter what it takes!!

My list is pretty simple. Obviously there are bigger action plans, but I wanted to make a list of small, tangible things I can do each day in order to make a difference.

How I’m Going to Heal in 2018:

  1. Journaling, everyday
  2. 3 meals + 3 snacks
  3. Set up regular appointments with your entire treatment team and actually go to them
  4. Slow mornings & evenings
  5. Stay out of the dorm for at least two hours everyday (class time not included)
  6. Intentional friendships
  7. Have intentional plans to see at least one person everyday
  8. At least eight hours of sleep
  9. Cry & feel
  10. Do art–make things, be creative
  11. Set boundaries FOR YOURSELF regarding your friendships
  12. No dating
  13. Read more
  14. Write in my planner/cross things off when done/stay on top of things
  15. Look into different group and other outpatient opportunities
  16. Get plugged in at college group
  17. Give yourself grace & time to rest/be alone
  18. Trust the process
  19. Stay busy, but not so busy that you’re avoiding
  20. Focus on yourself & put healing FIRST
  21. Listen to good music
  22. Only allow things/people into your life that add to it

And that’s it! Those are my big healing plans for 2018.

So ready +scared + excited + nervous + expectant for this.

Let’s go.

God’s gonna heal this!!

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My 2017 Saving Graces

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I don’t know how we’re already at the end of 2017, but here we are. And I am so thankful for that, because man, 2017 has been one heck of a year and I am ready to leave it all behind. Trust me, I know the clock striking midnight on December 31 isn’t as momentous as we make it seem–nothing actually changes unless we make the change. But it’s nice to have the clean slate and fresh start. And I am so. dang. ready. for that.

While reflecting back on the year, I really kept thinking of my saving graces that kept me sane, happy, healthy, and alive. They range from the smallest of things such as blog posts and songs all the way up to people in my life and moments that I lived. So many things in 2017 that reminded me stay here. you got this. we’ll make it through. So I thought I’d share some of my favorite saving graces from the year. There have been so, so many, but this is just a small handful that leave me saying YES YES YES every time I read/listen to/hang out with/remember them.

Blog Posts

“Good Morning Baltimore”–Hannah Brencher — Forever and always my favorite blog post. I seriously go back and read it at least once a week. I hang onto the hope that it offers when I can’t see an end in sight. So. Good.

“What I Do Know”–TWLOHA — “I’m not sure how it all started”–something I feel like I’ve said a thousand times the past few months. “I was choosing to believe I mattered enough to do the work that had to follow, even if those upcoming years looked daunting, even if the waves around me were more terrifying than ever before—those scary things meant I had hope. … I was taking healing into my own hands because I deserved it. It’s OK that I can’t remember, it’s OK that I’m unsure of how it all started. Because I do know how my healing started. It began with a decision to stay.”

“The Pain is the Price of Admission”–TWLOHA — “The pain comes with the joy. It’s the labor before the birth. The night before the dawn. The storm that soaks the soil before the bloom. You can’t let one in without the other either, I know. … You can’t run away from the pain and live. The pain is as much a part of the process as the joy is. They are not opposites, not even close: The pain is just the other side of the same life coin.”

“This Is Survival”–Aly Raisman — Blog post written by Aly Raisman about the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of her Olympic doctor. At the end of her post she shares her victim statement that she wrote for her abuser’s sentencing hearing. Powerful as heck.

“Promise Me Tomorrow”–TWLOHA — “Tomorrow is a place where we can figure out a better way to cope with living and tomorrow is a place where, one day, we won’t be coping – we’ll be living.”

People

Peggy + Lindsay–literally never underestimate the relationships you have with your freshman year RA(s). Peggy and Lindsay have been literal gold to me this year, and I am forever thankful. It takes some pretty special people to drop life just to bring you Panera when things are hard. Thanks for always answering my texts, phone calls, FaceTimes, and for letting me crash in Elam. I love y’all more than words can explain! (Also, Peggy, we have no pictures together. What the heck.)

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CH girlies always and forever!!–Mere, Kristin, Mandy, wow. I will never get over the friendship that I have in y’all. Thank you for keeping me grounded and for always inspiring me to walk out the freedom that I found with y’all!

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Lauren–my go-to, always and forever. Roomie bff. Yes. I love you. Always. Thanks for always answering my FaceTime calls when I’m sobbing and making jokes about whatever I’m crying about (that most people would find offensive but I love because they make me laugh). Thank you for always pulling me out of my head, even from a gazillion miles away.

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Kayley + Andrew + John–the most present, hands-on people in my life this semester. What a ride. But literally would not have been able to do it without y’all. Thank you. (Also, no picture of the four of us exists??)

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Michael + Amari–thankful for people that keep you grounded and laughing in even the most unfortunate circumstances. Let’s never go back, but thankful to have met y’all. Thanks for the jokes and coloring and… well that’s pretty much all we did, so thanks for the jokes and coloring!

Songs

Moments

Spring Break in CT–I said it a lot while I was there, but I was hardcore living my happy life up in New England. The blizzard, the rocky beaches, the roomie bffs reunited… it was all too good.

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One Year in Recovery!!–one year killing it in recovery from anorexia. Need I say more?

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Nannying Wyatt–honestly the highlight of my life. Nannying Wyatt was my greatest joy from summer 2017. SO. MUCH. HAPPINESS.

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Chrysalis–Chrysalis is always a highlight. Jesus is so present in that community of people. I am always grateful for a weekend that leaves me completely undone by the Holy Spirit and completely filled to the brim with Jesus joy. I always leave the weekend full of spiritual rest (def not physical rest) and with new eyes to see what the Lord is doing in my current season of life.

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Carolina House Alumni Retreat–what a blessing. Words cannot describe how it felt to be back at the place that saved my life with the people that my life was saved with. And finally getting to hug and meet McCall… best thing ever.

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Glennon Doyle!–I GOT TO MEET AND HUG MY (S)HERO AND I CRIED SO MUCH. Thanks for teaching me how to always show up and be brave and for always reminding me that WE CAN DO HARD THINGS!!

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NYC–honestly the calm before the storm of the end of the semester. Thanks, Jesus, for that one.

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All the Car Rides with Kay–loud music somehow makes all the broken pieces feel together. #blessed

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Etc.

Pinterest Quotes

“Home” by Rupi Kaur

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#MeToo

Peace out, 2017. I am SO ready for you, 2018!!!

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He Won’t Leave Me Here

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It’s been quite a week. Quite a month. And if I’m being honest, it’s been quite a semester.

I am so incredibly happy with where I am right now–I have the best roomie, my boyfriend is great, I’ve been traveling and seeing all my people which has been SO good, and I absolutely adore my major and the path that my life is on–but the darkness is heavy.

So heavy.

It’s been a heck of a long time since I have felt such unshakable sadness. The kind of sadness that’s almost debilitating. The kind of sadness that has left me in bed for 75% of this past week. And it is so hard to feel like this again.

I don’t think I have felt this kind of sadness that has lasted this long + affected so much of my life since before Carolina House. Ouch.

No no no no no, I am not that girl again. I’m not. This sadness is dark and heavy and it honestly feels like it’s never going to end, but I am not that girl still. I’m never going to be her again.

There’s really no point to this post except to say that sometimes life is hard. And sometimes you cry upwards of 10 times a day. That’s okay. It isn’t for forever.

I think in this past week I have journaled/vocalized to my roommate/texted my support system this very question about a gazillion times: “When is it just going to end?”

I don’t know when it’ll end. I don’t know when the tears will stop or when life will feel yellow again or when the sadness will finally go away, but here’s what I do know:

Jesus is good.

Jesus is good and he is faithful and he will not leave me here.

He’s never left me here before, and he’s not going to start now. That isn’t who my Jesus is.

Last night I journaled, through a heck of a lot of tears, “My Jesus, you are good. So good. Let me see that and say that in the midst of it all.”

YES.

Let me see your goodness and let me proclaim it EVEN IN THIS SADNESS.

Currently I want to go get Psalm 27:13 tattooed over every inch of my body because it is my heart cry right now.

I will remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Psalm 27:13

Amen.

My confidence and my only hope right now is that there is an end to this sadness. But even until then, I will praise Jesus because he sees me in this valley. He sees me and he knows me and he calls me his.

This season might not feel good, but he is good. And that is enough.

My Jesus won’t leave me here.

I don’t know when this sadness will end, I don’t know how many more tears will come, I don’t know how many more times I’ll beg for it to just be over already.

But he is here, so it is well.


This song is my anthem right now. Give it a listen, let it sink into your heart, and believe it. Peace be still.

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