When I was a little girl, I lost the first hero in my own storybook. A few days before I turned three, I lost my father in a car accident that left my entire family physically and emotionally scarred. From that experience, I learned the lie that no one would fight my battles, and my only hope of survival was being the strongest person in the room.
Striving and performance became my external coping mechanisms, supported privately by addiction and anything I could use to escape pain. I spent the next seventeen years finding comfort in food, drugs, sex, porn, alcohol, and anything that would make the pain a little quieter. Relationship after relationship, high after crash, I slowly created a world where chaos and self-destruction became the only pillars left standing. When you’re in that level of pain, your only goal is your next high, not your next breath.
I cried out for God to see me. I didn’t care whose God he was or what rules he would have for me, I just wanted to be found out. I waited for a punishment or sentencing to be delivered by an angry father holding my long list of wrongdoings. Instead, I met a significantly kinder version of God. It was the version I knew when I was a little girl crying to him to let me talk to my daddy after he died.