A few nights ago, I found myself crying under the comfort of my fluffy duvet. I was going through unpublished drafts meant for my blog when I came across one titled, “What Hurts.”

I read through my jumbled mess of thoughts that were penned in my journal. I quoted Ernest Hemingway while talking about feeling broken and helpless.

I said that I felt useless and tired and weighty—I felt the weight of deciding to live an engaged life this year. Just about six months ago I promised myself I would start to live an engaged life, maybe you remember the post.

The Hemingway quote was, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

To be honest readers, it’s taken me awhile to realise what hurts. I put off the façade that I am completely fine. I write on paper that I am okay. From first glance, I have everything I need to live.

But in the last few weeks I finally gave in and started seeing a therapist (ironically named Dr. Phil). In the midst of seeing the therapist I have started to recognise the rawness of my body, the substance of my soul and the darkest parts of my mind.

Lately, I have felt the sting and the burn of the wounds that are trying to heal. What hurts the most are all the neglected pieces I’ve callously overlooked. I’d hope they’d disappear in the void of my inattention, but they haven’t gone anywhere.

Inexcusable things like being physically abused and mentally neglected. Trauma from different events I was forced to experience while I was just a child. The fact I suffer from severe PTSD. Flashbacks to medical accidents scare me. Or the agony and anguish from people who have wounded me. And lastly I’ve overlooked, nightmares of the worst degree.

I hadn’t fully recognised the toxicity of certain people and objects in my life. I wasn’t willing to accept how I’ve personally been mistreated. I disregarded my own feelings, emotions and behaviours whilst knowing I was allowing certain things to stay in my life though they weren’t good for me.

It all weighs me down, day after day. I disregarded the fact that I’ve felt all of these things for the past two years.

Writing hard and clear about what hurts means telling you—my faithful readers— that I’ve spent more time yelling at God—fist in the air screaming at the top of my lungs until tears rush down my face bringing myself to my knees—and questioning who he is, in the past year than I have spent feeling warm and fuzzy about being faithful.

Writing hard and clear means telling you that I tried to listen to worship music while getting ready the other day and could barely get through a song without thinking how it was utter bullsh*t while then skipping the song soon thereafter.

Writing hard and clear means telling you I said goodbye to a lot of things in the past six months in order to live an engaged life. It’s meant sometimes saying goodbye to happiness, trust, and love—because being engaged is sometimes facing the unwanted. It’s sometimes meant saying hello to worry, frustration, fear. And I can tell you, I continue to struggle. I fall short every day. Writing hard and clear means admitting that I thought living an engaged life would be a lot easier.

Writing hard and clear means admitting that I have felt neglected by my own God. It means saying that for some reason he has taken away a lot of things out of my life—my home, my family, and even some of my friends. It means telling you I don’t understand why—I don’t understand where I fell short.

To be honest, maintaining any shred of hope and continuing to have resilience is more than difficult right now.

But as I cried under my covers a few nights ago, under the weight of pain, I remembered that I have gotten this far. I remembered how God has always shown me the light rather than dwelling in the dark. I was reminded that I was breathing. I was thinking. I have the chance at experiencing beauty and peace and love, all over again and again.

I was reminded of the army of people who love me, for who I am and all the baggage that comes with me. I remembered the people who have come into my life and all the positive outcomes because of that. I was reminded how I have been more engaged in the last six months than I have been all my life. I thought, when the nightmares hit, or when I can’t breathe on a Friday morning because I am so anxious, that this God, who I say I love—regardless of whether I understand it or not— suffers with us.

Trevin Wax says, “There, in the midst of grief and sorrow, we see God and believe that he is able to somehow take up our burdens upon himself and deliver us from our own despair. He is not distant from our pain. He understands our suffering  because he himself, suffered too.”

Pain is pain. It exhausts, confuses, hurts and weighs us down, regardless of what scale you try to measure it on.

Whether you’ve had another human come to you and say, “Me too” or not, I believe that God is not outside the door waiting for the pain to be over before he comes to your rescue. He is in the middle of it with you. He takes each stride with you, pushing you farther and uplifting you every step of the way.

A few nights ago, I experienced something I never thought I would have to go through. It left me tired, wounded, weighted, and hurt. It left me dry after all my tears had been wept. It left me questioning my meaning and what I have done as a person.

Even though I thought the pain was unbearable, what hurt more was knowing that I let the hurt affect me more than I should. I conceal my feelings, hide my tears, and tuck away the discomfort leaving me even more weighted and neglected.

I realised that in order to live an engaged life, I need to feel comfortable with sharing how I feel. I need to stand up for myself. I need to be my own advocate, especially when I feel tired, mistreated and used.

As I sat there curled into my comforter, I realised I am not the person to let what hurts beat me into submission. I am the type of person who stands up, fighting back. I am the type of person who will smile, even if whoever I am smiling at, doesn’t smile back. I am the type of person who sometimes loses her spark and is knocked down. However, when I get back up, I stand as the whole damn fire.

After my 2am pity party, I wiped my tear ridden face, stood up, and decided it was time to write hard and clear about what hurts.

What hurts?… realising that all of the hardship, terror, and brokenness I have been experiencing, is all a part of his plan. It’s realising that sometimes we have to say goodbye to the old in order to welcome in the new. It’s looking into the depths of my soul and the darkness of my mind and the substance of my being and welcoming the new and engaged parts. It’s accepting that I have changed into a stronger, more resilient, confident individual than I could have ever imagined.

What hurts?… Trusting my loving God and knowing that he will take care of me every step of the way during this surprising, uphill battle I have with life. Though it hurts, I know it’ll all be worth it in the end. Don’t ask me why he doesn’t just clap his hands and make it all stop. In the end, we weren’t asked to understand him, only to trust.

Write hard and clear about what hurts?… Tell Hemingway, no problem.

Uptown Maven