Just a few years ago, this would have felt impossible.
I could barely leave the house, let alone the country. Just going to the corner-shop was too terrifying to contemplate.
I couldn’t eat breakfast with my husband, let alone every meal with strangers.
I couldn’t meet the eyes of friends, let alone tell my story to a roomful of people.
These are good things. But they were hard things too.
I still had to fight the urge to hide and retreat.
I still found it hard to eat and to live with others – especially since I’d worn my struggles in such a public way.
When I talked to people, I was frightened of what they’d see. I wanted to be so much better than who I am. Confident. Strong. Godly.Beautiful.
I felt ashamed and exposed and tired and weak.
It’s made me realise how far I’ve come – but also how far I have to go.
But I’m scared. Like a quivering mollusc, clinging to the sand: the Lord is peeling me away, but I’m worried I’ll rip.
I believe He loves me and wants my good.
I believe that real life is found in Him and in relationship with others.
But I’m scared of love and I’m scared of life and I’m scared of relationship.
Scared of other people. Of being seen – and then rejected.
Scared of myself. Of what I want to be and what I am.
Scared of God. Knowing me, accepting me, leading me to the places I don’t want to go.
Taking me forwards into the warm, noisy, messy place, where there are people and I’m alive.