Last week was a week to celebrate. The kids went back to school, I had job interviews, and I released my first book! How exciting! But it wasn’t. Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. The day my proof arrived, I was ecstatic. I ran to the box and tore open the package as if it were Christmas Day. The kids watched in confusion, but when I revealed the book, everyone’s face lit up. This was the moment we had been waiting for. I had been talking about it for years. I had spent the whole summer working on it. I danced as David danced. My oldest son looked at me with a smile bigger than Colorado and said, “Mama, I am so proud of you.” That meant everything to me. The same day I received my proof, the book was officially published, so I made my first announcement on Facebook. The love came pouring in, and my heart smiled. I was happy. For a moment, I was truly proud of myself. Happy that I had accomplished something I had always wanted to do. It was real. OMG! This was really happening. Then, the shift happened. What will people think of me? What if no one likes it? What if this was all for nothing? So many different emotions clouded my mind. Panic and fear took center stage, backing me into a corner with tears streaming down my face. Was it easier to be attacked by the enemy in private than it was in public? Would my story bring the same shame as the last public humiliation? I made it through that past hurt—but that’s not the point! I’m supposed to be happy right now! Of course, I’m not going to be popping bottles screaming, “Ayyeee!” at the top of my lungs. But I’m supposed to be happy. Why was a wave of guilt, shame, and fear overtaking this moment? Should I pull the book? Too late, you already announced it. God, I was doing just fine over here in my little bubble, doing edits for the last three years. I’m healing. I’m better. I smile more, my house is full of laughter, and we are okay. Yet, a moment I thought would feel fulfilling felt like the total opposite. I felt like I was being robbed. I wanted to call someone. I needed to talk to someone. Instead, I sat in it. I felt those feelings, and I cried for a long time. In some ways, we are all struggling with something. Many of us come from nothing and have to build from the dust of what was left behind. You may not have had it so bad, but I couldn’t say that for myself. On the outside looking in, you would have never thought it was as bad as it was. I wasn’t just fighting my circumstances and the will to survive; I was fighting the will to stay sane through it all. Do you know how much strength it takes to do that? I had found a way to start dealing with the old wounds. In fact, the very next day, I made an appointment to see my therapist. I needed to process what I was feeling. I didn’t want to slip into a depressive pit that would take weeks or months to climb out of. And I didn’t want to hide anymore. I didn’t want to shove those feelings down, pretend they weren’t there, or find temporary covers for deep wounds. No, I needed to deal with them. The enemy knew exactly when to strike. Two weeks before finishing my book, he sent a distraction—and I mean, he had me smiling from here to Africa. He said all the right things, and we shared a lot of the same interests. But when I started seeing my own behavior change, I had to bring it into submission. The enemy knows your past, but he can’t see your future. He just knows that if he can keep you distracted, you won’t be able to complete your assignment. This was a cycle that I desperately needed and wanted to break. Attention from men had always been my pit, and he knew it. The week of the release, he used fear and shame because he wanted me to shrink. He wanted me to run and hide. In those moments, I didn’t know if I was going to mentally lose everything I had worked for. So I cried. I sat before God, and I cried some more. Growing up, what happened in our house stayed in our house. And here I was, laying bare before the world. It’s my story. It’s my truth. Yeah, but will everyone else see it that way? I told it the way I lived it—raw and honest, with no ill intent. I didn’t want anyone to feel under attack. I didn’t want to hurt anyone by something I said. I didn’t want to rip open old wounds for anyone else. My heart was heavy because in that moment I realized I had let my guard down. But it was never to hurt anyone intentionally. Lord knows, I will do anything to protect the people I love. No matter where we are in life, I will always be someone they can count on. But I cried because I knew that in order for me to heal and be all that I am destined to be, there had to be a release. But for the world to see? Yes. For the world to see. The world needs to see the single mother struggling to find hope and a future. The one who has lost herself in her circumstances, or the one who is doing it all on her own and sometimes can’t find the strength to go forth. The woman stuck in the same cycles and relationships because she is still searching for the love she never received in all the wrong places. The woman who feels that the things and people of this world define who she is. The woman screaming, “Am I enough?” This is for the man who keeps crying out to God, wondering why He hasn’t answered yet. The little girl carrying the weight of the adults. The little boy frantically searching for his father, and the little girl waiting for her mother to come home. When everything you can think of was sent to destroy your life, and you are still climbing your mountain to be everything God predestined you to be—yeah, it’s for the world to see. The world needs to see what I went through and how God brought me over. I used to sit at the feet of my elders, and they taught me things that helped me. Most importantly, I saw firsthand the tears my grandmother shed. I saw exhaustion ride her to her grave. I watched my mother run in a race she would never win, yet she rose every morning, laced her shoes, and ran to escape the reality of her world. I saw them making it, but at the end of their lives, everything they had returned to the dust with them. But the pain, the race, and the unfinished business were left behind. The promise to build a legacy seemed impossible. There were no blueprints. I made the decision: we would no longer pass down pain. I had to start building for generations to come. I had to complete what they started. And I want to bring along every woman, man, boy, and girl who is willing and ready to break the chains that have held your bloodline captive for years. God told me to write the book multiple times, and I had allowed my fear to paralyze me. I kept waiting for the perfect moment or for when I got my life together. Those moments don’t exist, and my delayed obedience was still disobedience. But God has a way of getting you to complete the task He has given you. I think Jonah is a clear example of what happens when we try to outrun the assignment. When I stopped running, my obedience disrupted my comfort zone, exposed me to judgment from others, and opened some wounds that hadn’t been fully dealt with. It required me to come out of hiding, and I began to second-guess who I was. I had to remember who I was in Him. I made the decision to heal intentionally, but today, I don’t want to do it without Him. I had to remember my why, and never forget Who sent me. This was not for my own gain, but for the upbuilding of His kingdom. To be a voice. And when I am weak, He is strong. I will take some hits, and I might lose some friends, but as long as I have Jesus, I don’t need anyone else. No matter what may come, my answer is, “Here am I. Send me.” Thanks for reading! 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