Lenten Reflection – Fourth Sunday of Lent: Still Here And Becoming Real Continued... (Combined with Day 28)

How uncomfortable do you have to become before you finally realize something needs to change?

Over five years ago, I was a complete and utter mess. Not in the casual, “life is hard” kind of way. I mean a fog of grief, sadness, hopelessness, and depression that sat heavy in my chest every single day. It wasn’t just one thing. It was five different tragedies colliding at the same time. One major loss is already enough to bring you to your knees, but when they come one after another, your ability to cope gets pushed to its limit.

I can say this now because it’s no longer my reality, but during that time, I didn’t know if I was going to make it through.

I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to be a burden to my friends or family. But a few people noticed. The tone of my voice. The lack of energy. The absence of… me.

If you really know me, you know that if I say “I’m not okay,” it’s probably already really bad.

What I understand now is that what I thought was a breakdown… was actually a breakthrough. It just didn’t feel like one at the time.

Jane Elliot, a well-known anti-racist educator, used to go into predominantly white communities (farming communities) and talk about race and privilege. People would tell her, “We grew up poor. We worked hard. We struggled.”

And she would acknowledge that their lives were hard, but then ask them to imagine living that same life while also being Black in America.

Some would say, “It would be the same.”

And then she would ask a simple question, "Who here would be willing to be treated the way Black people in America are treated?"

No one stands.

Because we all know.

We all know it’s not the same.

I needed to name that, because context matters. Because systems matter. Because the stories we tell about struggle don’t all carry the same weight.

Over the past decade, I’ve lost three close friends.

Two to suicide.

One to poverty and lack of access to healthcare.

We were all queer. All people of color. All navigating identity. All trying to find a place where we felt like we belonged. They were brilliant. Kind. Complex. Deeply human. And, powerful individuals who should still be here.

And they’re gone.

I think about them often. About the lives they didn’t get to live. About the time I still have that they don’t. And there’s a question that never really leaves me, "Why them… and not me?" I don’t have an answer for that.

But I do know this, something in me decided to stay.

Back then, I had to face something I didn’t want to admit, I wasn’t okay. And if I didn’t do something, I wasn’t going to survive.

That kind of honesty is terrifying. Because once you say it out loud, you can’t pretend anymore. You have to change something. And change, real change, is uncomfortable.

It means letting go of the identities you built just to survive.

It means questioning the roles you’ve been playing.

It means sitting with yourself without distraction.

I had to learn how to be alone without abandoning myself.

I had to become someone I could rely on.

Not in a performative, “I’ve got it all together” kind of way.

But in a quiet, consistent way.

I went to therapy. I built routines. I cried... a lot, and I hate crying. I feel no real relief from it. I also had to allow myself the space to grieve everything I had been carrying for years.

And at night, when there was no one else there, I had to be the one to tell myself, "You’re going to be okay."

At first, I didn’t believe it.

But I kept saying it anyway.

Because somewhere deep down, I knew, I’ve made it through hard things before. I can make it through this.

The biggest shift wasn’t external.

It was internal.

I stopped measuring my worth by what I did for others.

I stopped trying to earn love through productivity.

I stopped letting other people’s perceptions define who I was.

And I started asking a different question, "What do I think about myself?"

Because that’s the relationship I had been neglecting the most.

Self-exploration is scary.

Healing is exhausting.

The truth is, there were moments I wanted to give up.

But I didn’t.

And I think that’s the difference.

Not that I was stronger.

Not that I had fewer reasons to give up.

But that I was willing to do the work. Even when it hurt. Even when it was hard. Even when I didn't want to do it.

Here’s what I know now, "You are not who other people think you are."

You are the only one who knows who you truly are.

And if you don’t like who you are, you have to ask yourself why.

Not to shame yourself.

But to understand yourself.

Because what you believe about yourself will shape the life you live.

And that means something.

It means I get another day to choose differently.

To live more honestly.

To love myself better than I did before.

The struggle is real, yet...

I am still here.

Lenten Reflection: Staying Alive, Becoming Real

“Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God.” — Psalm 42:11 (NRSV)

Lent is not just about sacrifice.

Sometimes, it’s about survival.

About telling yourself the truth.

About choosing to stay when leaving feels easier.

About learning how to live with yourself, and maybe even love yourself, again.

This week, sit with this:

🔹 Where am I pretending I’m okay when I’m not?

🔹 What do I need to change, even if it’s uncomfortable?

🔹 What would it look like to choose myself fully, honestly, without apology?

You don’t have to have it all figured out.

You just have to stay.

Let’s keep going.

Take care of yourselves.

And take care of each other.

*** If you or someone you know is having suicidal thoughts, please reach out to a safe person, a professional, and/or call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. You can also chat via 988lifeline.org.

Suicide prevention resources: https://afsp.org/suicide-prevention

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