You’re Not the Problem: A Story of Self-Worth and Belonging

I spend a lot of time on social media these days, struggling to build my platform as a writer. Some days I enjoy the process; other days, not so much. Either way, every post or comment and every interaction is another plank on the imaginary stage, from which I hope to share my journey of faith and healing with readers. Recently, this Facebook post brought back a flood of old memories: feeling unwanted, struggling with self-worth, overcoming family rejection, and learning to belong.

It took me back to times when I tried so desperately to be small—small in voice, small in presence. Small enough to be overlooked because I hungered for attention but it wasn’t safe to be noticed, and yet...no matter how much I shrank myself, I was still there. Still real. Still me. I lost nearly thirty years of my life feeling like a burden, overcoming childhood trauma, healing from rejection. Trying to balance my need to be seen and known against the counterweight of shame for even wanting such a thing.

But I'll be forty-one tomorrow, and with each passing year I find more comfort in myself, my space, my existence. I am not "too much" or "too little." I just AM.

She learned early how to disappear.

She had no magic, no illusion, no special talent, no trap door beneath her feet; the early years marked by abuse and neglect left only the quiet hope of taking up as little space as possible. A soft step coupled with a lowered gaze, vibrant blue eyes the only window to an achingly silent soul. It was safer that way.

Long before her woman's body began to bloom, her child mind recognized the risk of notice, the danger of being seen. Sharp critiques chipped away at her self-worth, impossible standards blew hope from her hands like dandelion seeds on the wind. A stinging backhand, the crack of a paddle. The shattered blue glass of a bowl thrown—and only narrowly dodged. Love shouldn't hurt, but it did. And rare as it felt when it did come, it always came with conditions. Be enough, but not too much. Stay small, but not too small.

Under Grandma's watchful gaze, she learned another lesson—perhaps unintentional, but cemented in the core of her self-acceptance all the same. Even quiet things could be a burden.

Mornings, which could have been filled with hope for the brokenhearted girl, were instead reminders of her status as an added burden. She would awaken in the quiet, careful not to wake the cousins in the other bunks, and creep silently from the room as the world began to stir. With lowered eyes and lips tightened against the slightest utterance, she would curl herself into the living room chair with a book. Speechless. And still.

But every morning without fail, Grandma would shake her salt-and-pepper head. breaking the silence with an exasperated sigh. She was overburdened already—and now she was stuck with another mouth to feed, another damaged child to raise. The girl was an intrusion. Quiet perhaps, but still too visible. So she adjusted, shrinking further. She abandoned the cozy chair and spent those early moments in the bathroom instead, curled up on the tile floor where the closed door meant no one had to see her. And for once, she wasn't in the way.

The years passed; she grew a little taller, a little stronger. The girl became a woman, now too big for invisibility. She found her self, found her voice, spread her wings, took up space. Too much space. She wasn't Goldilocks—she was every item in the cottage of the Three Little Bears all at once. Too bold and too cold. Too meek and too bossy. "Playing the victim" but "too proud" and so very "full of herself." Too much and too little, but never enough.

Grief and anger struck a rebellion that told her she was fine, that there was purpose in pain even if she couldn't see it. That if even loathsome cockroaches had purpose, she must have one too...even if it was only to serve as constantly unpalatable contrast.

But then she looked into the faces of her own daughters, strong-willed and brimming with life, and found the magic she'd been carrying all along. The illusion of nothingness shattered around her, an echo of the long-gone but never-forgotten blue bowl. And a spark flared to life in the embers of a smothered spirit.

She had spent a lifetime trying to disappear. She would not teach her daughters to do the same.

Instead, she gave them protection and truth in love. She warned them that they would always be too much for some and too little for others. That no matter how they tried, they might never mold themselves into the expectations of those who did not understand them.

And then she told them that it didn't matter anyway—because people are fickle and preferences are varied, but nothing changed the simple face that they were wanted. And that by their very existence, God himself had made them enough.

*****

For me, overcoming childhood trauma and healing from rejection meant learning hard lessons in self-love and trusting God's plan for my life—but it wasn't an easy journey and I got myself into a lot of messes along the way. That imaginary platform I mentioned at the beginning of this post? It's all reclaimed material, bits and pieces pulled from the wreckage of my younger selves, painted with the stories of my past and the lessons I've learned. And speaking of stories...

We're eleven short weeks from the rerelease of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, a powerful novel largely inspired by my personal experiences with overcoming and recovering from domestic abuse. In the United States alone, domestic violence accounts for 15% of all violent crime, and a woman is assaulted every nine seconds.

I can't change the world, but I can tell a story—and I hope with every beat of my heart that Christine's story will give voice to survivors. I hope she steadies their shaking hands, emboldens them to seek safety, encourages them to keep healing, and reminds them that they have everything it takes to...