I’m trying to organize my thoughts
into something coherent
something that makes a little more sense
to tell you the story of the girl I used to be
or maybe the thing I carried
for years inside of me

some years ago
I got a bad battery I didn’t ask for

I looked like a normal girl becoming a woman
but my reality sputtered 
t-t-t hearing that sound
every time I tried to start the engine

I thought it was just life
that having a bad battery
was a rite of passage with no end
carrying a little of the blues
into every room I stepped in

It happened so often
I started to think it was normal
Looking in the mirror
dealing with what looked like my reflection
and let me tell you
it was no picnic

My car left me stranded
in suicidal thoughts
pretty much everywhere for fourteen years
Palmetto Highway, Tamiami, Little Haiti
you name it...

Still no one could tell
I had learned to mask the evidence
life of the party
at least that was my go to routine
a strong shoulder for everyone’s tears
except my own

Eventually my sister caught me
jump starting my battery again
reality had caught up with me
for the hundredth time

my proud culture's Caribbean voice saying
that my brain not being my friend 
was me being cray-cray
that I just needed to be tougher
strong enough to fix myself

yet, sister saw through my hood
the strong Black girl facade
without lifting a finger
she just said
something she can’t even remember now
Lynn getting help is not weakness

Maybe He spoke through her that day
honestly I still don’t know

I just sat in the car
while my stereo screen flickered
my sign telling me it was never binary
one versus the other

prayer and self-reliance 
versus therapy and medication
His hands just don’t fit into those small
matte black compartments

I was just waiting for enough charging
to make it to the next family get together
or friend’s birthday party
but He laughed at my maintenance request
and gave me a new battery

Inside it was
joy
peace
and confidence.

Maybe you’ve heard me speak. 
Maybe we’ve met in person
and if so, two things probably happened: either I sped up and lost clarity, 
or I slowed down and stuttered so much you could barely understand me. That’s completely human. 
If it’s your first time meeting someone who stutters, you’re adjusting—trying to hear the words, not the stumbling ones.

I can’t remember exactly when I first noticed I stuttered. It’s just something I’ve become more aware of as I've started carrying more responsibility—even as a child—not just for myself, but for others. And through that, God has been teaching me grace. Every new space I walk into is another opportunity to speak up—for myself, for someone else.

Still, I’ve treated my stutter like a sweater in my closet—one I avoid wearing because it’s Miami and it’s hot, but I know it’s there, staring back at me every day. So yeah, I stutter. And this is my story.

I stutter in all languages—Creole, French, and English. The language may change, but I’m still me. The girl or should I say woman now that I’m twenty-six — with the same brain, the same rhythm of thought. I’ve heard it has to do with the connection in your brain—how words get tangled on their way from thought to mouth. And as the words come out, my eyes unintentionally get closed to regulate my nervous system. So compared to the typical person you meet, my eyes close for a few more seconds when I'm speaking. The cool thing is that I can't control that either. You can call it a side effect if you'd like.

But my family never saw my stutter as a defect. I grew up safe and loved. Speech therapy wasn’t treated like a cure-all, and for that, I thank God. He opened my parents’ eyes early to see that I didn’t need fixing to be whole. The outside world, though, is a different kind of comedy. People either assume I’m incompetent or get extra empathetic, jumping in to finish my sentences.

It’s like watching life in slow motion, and honestly, being a hyper-observant person, I kind of enjoy it. I joke with friends that life is a telenovela—different scenes, new plots, but somehow everything works together. Even the sweater you never wear.

It took me two decades to realize that I am not a stutterer. I am a person who happens to stutter when I speak. At first glance, those two sentences might sound identical, or like wordplay, but they carry entirely different meanings. Calling myself a stutterer implies I choose to stutter—that I carry the weight of blame for something beyond my control. Stuttering isn’t a choice; I can’t decide where, when, or why it happens. It just happens.

Identifying as a person who stutters means embracing stuttering as a condition, not a flaw to be cured. It’s simply part of my reality—a constant companion, like Dr. Bruce Banner and the Hulk, locked in a tug-of-war for control. I often lose those internal battles, whether I’m nervous, relaxed, or excited. Words can stick in my throat for seconds. Sometimes minutes, especially at the beginning or middle of a sentence.

What’s fascinating is that stuttering isn’t common in my family. Only three relatives have had it: 
my grandfather on my dad’s side, a gifted storyteller; 
my uncle, a die-hard Argentina football fan, always cheering for the losing side; and my oldest sister, briefly as a toddler, the kindest soul I know. 
Yet I’m the only one in my immediate family who stutters.

The outside world, however, is a different story. People hear my stutter before they see me. I notice their impatience as they finish my sentences or offer quick solutions to “fix” me. Those suggestions are well-meaning, but deeply annoying. So I learned to silence myself. I spoke in a lower voice, hoping to shrink. Or I sped through words, trying to outrun my stutter. The result? People forgot what I said. Or they didn’t hear me at all. 

But I’ve given up trying to control it. I’m learning to slow down, to take my time—because I will stutter anyway. Because it’s not my job to prioritize someone else’s comfort over my own peace.

And If you ever meet someone who stutters, just listen. Really listen. Or ask us to repeat. The second time around is usually worth it.

Since I was a kid, I’ve always been curious about what happens after a “happily ever after.” You don’t see them afterward — like how’s the marriage, tell us about domestic life. How do you decide which of your parents you’re visiting for Thanksgiving or Christmas? We just don’t get to see that behind the scene picture.

Yet those in-between seasons, that’s where most of life happens. There's a tension between who you are and who you’re becoming. I've always wondered too... what happens after healing?

we want someone’s everything
their fresh words
their gaze that frames our world
centering us in every single interaction

but what if, they’re just human?
like you and I
figuring out life’s off days
where their missteps are just that

unanswered texts? 
not ghosting.
missed plans? 
not rejection.

it may just sound ridiculous 
saying the obvious
but simple truths
just don’t shout in the morning

wavelengths shifting from red to violet
we'll misread each other on some days
as we go through life’s crowded hallways

brushing past unspoken misalignments
cold winds will greet and hold the space 
where real conversation should’ve been

seeing someone as priceless is not the problem
but when they become a magazine cutout 
to trace
we lose ourselves by signing up for 
this race

their big hearts, unrested arms spread thin
under the weight of every “yes”
they didn’t have space
to say no to

the truth is
placing another human so high 
only invites gravity to drag them down
maybe not now
but for sure eventually

what I’ve learned is this
other people’s decisions
and actions are not about you
your mind threading on
that thought is just an intrusive trap

how could we be the main character
in someone else’s story?

it sounds strange again 
to repeat this refrain
but these small truths are the ones 
we must remember every. single. day.

You and me have history
I see you
but somehow you don’t see me
something about familiarity
that blinds us from seeing our true reality

right there in the background waiting
like nothing had ever happened
in the first place

though You and me have 
what I’d call more than simple history
each time we try and grab it 
it seeps through our fingers 

a thousand beige grains to say less
recentering my skin in the present
that's some type of comfort
no one else can offer

’cause each time I sit next to you
my yesterday just starts making sense
somehow your curves wash away
all of my worries and fears

still often I forget
you’re nearer than I think
something special about the way 
your saltiness tells me the future too
will be well

You and me have something
I call history
that’s hard to depict in just words

something about the way you look at me
and kiss the sky over there
makes me think 
you'll always wrap around me
all too well.

our same old ways
the distance between me and her
were so big
that fear would creep in
in ways that were all too familiar

the same lies about climbing the ladder
that would finally quench
all those deep desires within
if I just took steps A… B… C…
and all the ones that come after

oh the security I long for
made me quiet for a second
to be honest for a few weeks even
muting my personality
into the ghost of her

turns out that healing wasn’t linear

fear creeping in that corner
the distance between me and her
those same milestones that move
each time I think I’m one step closer

contemplating that same old question
we've all asked ourselves
is happiness a sum of all my decisions
or something
that rises above circumstantial evidence

fear had crept back
through the back door in my mansion
one that was sealed shut 

it became la maîtresse de la maison*
giving me orders
to cook on skates
for its pleasure

but that couldn’t be
the sum of our interaction
could it?

not even mustering a word of defiance
while setting the table with 
the shiniest silver platter
I baked macaroni au gratin

then, walked outside
to get some fresh air
and set that house on fire
a minute later.

*la maîtresse de la maison: lady of the house

you were still leading me
and I mistook it all for harmony

I was your instrument
you chose the notes
played the song
as you stroked each key

it sounded just like me playing
so I never thought much of it

I thought I had no one left to forgive
but there you were
still hiding in the closet
I loved you so much
I’d sacrifice myself first

we had met at three
inseparable last names with A’s
first names with L’s
yellow barrettes tied us together
a match made in heaven

green barrettes came
preteens, 2010’s earthquake happened
our paths got split open
you made a decision
that I never saw coming

you chose someone
you chose distance
it hurt but I told my feet
to draw nearer, try harder
but you never chose our friendship

navy blue barrettes came
I thought you just didn’t know 
how to show up
that I mistook being needed
for being loved

this summer
I built a guard
with that old wound in new waters
submerged in pride trying to protect myself

I had come to terms
with something I didn’t know
I was still carrying
I hadn’t forgiven you
fifteen years ago

you were just a kid at 11
and so was I
you chose her
because she embodied a safety net
that could teach you how to float 
when I, myself
hadn't learned to swim yet

you were just trying to survive 
puberty & love 
and she could give you answers 
that I just couldn’t

so, I really need to let you go
because even when 
personalities 
or skin hues collide with yours
not everyone is out to hurt me

my dear L.A.
I need to tell you this sure secret
I love you, old friend
but I won't bleed into my new relationships
again

I forgive you.

he tried stepping in my neighborhood
I saw him coming around the corner 
clothed in crimson red envy
he knocked on my door

qui es-tu? 
do we have an appointment? I asked

It's me, the enemy answered

well mr. me
you’ve come to the wrong address, I said
you must be looking for lane street
you're on terrace street

call it oxymoron if you like
but you know what I mean
terrace is. my. territory.
you better. get. your lane.

try me
play with me

e wap fè komisyon
pèdi tan
ak yon bèl kalót 
dè tèt ou.

[Translation (intent for intent): 
keep running your errands, cheri
wasting your time 
you’ll only end up
smacking your own head]

words don’t come easy  
without a worship song  
I’m always thinking in terms of fa, re, mi  

I should be grateful  
for just the gift to be
to smile now, something more in tune  
with who I was meant to be  

the more in tune I get  
the more I see
notes that weren’t supposed to even be 
on my music sheet 
all the time I wasted playing off key  

down to one beat black notes
I camouflaged into two beats whites  
like I was keeping count  
of all the times my practice  
left some ears shrieking  

You sang that line
in curved brackets 
that’s now engraved in my memory:
I don't keep count
but you do

you always put a melody
to shame and guilt
when I already took care of it

not that accountability  
won’t be my square pause thing  
but that Your grace covered  
my past, present, future failings  

making up for lost time  
shouldn’t be hummed  
even as a simple Alto harmony  
only to think 
I had to make You happy

You knew too well  
that I would fall then  
and still You teared those  
counting sheets apart  

told me to look at Your hands  
to see 
I'm still Your favorite song.

It’s funny how it’s always easier to apologize in a language that isn’t your own.
I grew up on an island, and when I moved here around twelve, I had major culture shock. People said I’m sorry out loud. Like, with words. That was wild to me. Because back in Haiti, if you did something wrong, you’d just say, hmm... but never really apologize. No heart-to-heart. Just a quiet acknowledgment and move on.

Over time, I noticed something in my own house—me and my siblings found it easier to apologize in English, but never in Creole. Somehow English gave us distance, a layer of safety. But after thirteen years here, even English started to feel heavy. Saying I was wrong. I hurt you. That got harder sometimes.

But forgiveness itself—the words I’m sorry or I forgive you—I mean both when I say them. And they've never been the hardest part for me. Some of you might get that. The hard part isn’t the conversation; it’s what happens after. It’s guilt and shame when you realize you can deeply hurt people you love. And that is scary.

It’s not creating distance between you and them. Because that memory lives rent free in your head, and whispers, you don’t deserve closeness anymore.

But the truth is, Jesus’ sacrifice already covered it all... past, present and future. If we ever think our sin is too big for Him to forgive, that’s the issue. 

Isn't God bigger than our sins? 

So, we can’t let guilt and shame pretend to be good accountability partners. Saying I’ll use this guilt to make sure I don’t do it again isn’t healing, it’s self-punishment. And a few weeks ago, I went to a prayer room. Before I left, I shared my prayer with the person sitting next to me. And the weight I’d been carrying for months finally lifted that day. 

If you’ve felt stuck this year—if you’ve hurt someone and created distance out of shame—know that there’s power in praying in community. Praying with people changes things. It opens your eyes to the walls you’ve built and gives you the grace to tear them down.

That, to me, is what it means to contend for love and relationships. To learn with God not just to forgive and apologize. But to forgive yourself for whatever you did. Because in the end without you forgiving yourself restoration isn’t possible. 

At least that’s what I’ve been learning in 2025.

[ Update 11/5/2025: 
And don't neglect confession friends. Other people have walked in your shoes. There's no need to prolong your healing journey by keeping what you're going through private. Heal in community with confession first and prayer.]

this is not a play on words
but I'm glad 
you're here and 
not there

but 
to be or not to be here 
that is the real question
to stay stuck or finally
break free

are we living in a Christmas globe 
encapsulating a season
a memory
or a reality

well who cares
you're here regardless

and it feels like I know you
and I think 
our gaze met last week

without further gibberish lol
welcome to "Liminal Letters"
let me introduce myself:
I'm Lynn and I hate writing

seems like 
we're in a simulation at best right
but let me take you 
into my stream of consciousness
the five paragraph essay is my nemesis

simplicity is what I like
simple words in-between
and that's all 
I've got left to say.

You've asked me 
to do the same thing again
to repeat 
the same action from last August

"don't wear makeup in January!"
honestly, deep down 
I didn't want to listen
cause I thought 
It wasn't a big deal

eyeliner opened those deep brown eyes
to see that I was bound
to a routine
where makeup was actually 
in control and not me

hiding to look the part
chasing Miss. Polished
down that same old crooked street

I was so insecure, Lord 
thinking that my face wouldn't
reflect your light well
distracting others from seeing your heart

how I lied to myself!

doesn't my light come from You
and not my looks?

am I not clay 
molded with your bare hands
still useful to carry living water
despite of my chipped paint

am I not whole 
and already complete in You?

do I need to become 
a picture perfect pot 
shaped for security
pressing and pressing
when Your sight sees beyond
this outer shell

so I declare with firm conviction
this for my new season
I will show up whole in any room

It can't be my job to mold
my own self-esteem 
spinning the potter's wheel
to just blend in

what if I showed up
for a little while 
simple as You made me 
who could then predict the future really

I don’t know yet
but maybe a confidence centered
a vessel strengthened
to bear only Your name truly.

to die to be different
isn’t that something?

if I die,
would that mean
I’m not alive or breathing?

but what if I’m seeing this all wrong

that dying would only make me
more like You
the One who drew
every stroke of my innate being

bare pencil arcs and marks
on my blank canvas

and yet 
if I let fear take over
if I keep thinking
that I have to control it all
will I even let it all go?

maybe to die to be different
isn’t to disappear at all
but to be remade new
each and every day

less of me.
more of You.

who said you’d always feel like showing up?

who said becoming would be easy
that life would bring you all the right things
at the time you appointed

who said everyone needs to like you?

who said good job meant perfection
by a standard that wasn’t even yours
in the first place

I do love my feelings, honestly
I became aware of them in 2018 
while in therapy

but it’s one thing to feel them
and another 
to let those trips down
memory lane
cloud your current reality

to let them tell you 
you’re forever a victim
when you’re no longer one
overcomer should be 
more fitting really

we are a product of 
all the things we've experienced
a thousand-piece puzzle
to see which one leads to the next

each piece creating the full picture
how nice it is 
to get that clarity!

like a sneak peek 
behind the red curtains
at what makes you tick

but 
who said the things written on us 
have to define us?

who said the things you’ve experienced
have to be what 
define you?

body language just needs a dictionary
seems like definitions 
aren't all about words
but movements that decodes meaning

like a transparent bag showing it all
no room left for mind guessing games
eyes contextualizing 
when words don't say it all
 
just don't match their facial expressions
what did they mean by this?

when smile tapered on lips doesn't seem 
to reach their pearl like eyes
is that an invitation to conversation
plant something strong in this new season
or a cue to say I'll see you later
more like never 

but would knowing 
everything at all times 
the omniscient God power 
be something we can yield 
with our self-righteous scepter
who are we?
to even think we're an objective observer

creating a world that no one can escape 
the storyline, characters, and roles
we assign before the credits roll
so one-dimensional 
aren't we all dynamic and constantly changing?

getting twists and turns
just doesn’t sugar-coat the truth
we filter it
through our last bad memory
singing that sweet, bad nightingale
isn’t that the most human thing?

these little lies harmonize
with one action that happened in milliseconds
camouflaging as your own thoughts

these little lies whisper
two opposing meanings about that body language
but they’re hard to get shut out

at least that's the battle
we all face inside out
sensing something’s off that we can’t quite pinpoint
like it's altogether another language
but are we ever truly objective observers in the first place?

I can’t shake the thought
that body language is 
a coin with two sides:
a power that reads between subtext
a language that needs careful handling

still
being omniscient is just a power
I just do not want 
a chair I'll reserve for Him
and simply skip sitting on.

Photo Credits: Peter Kalonji.

What if your life was just never about you
what if your pain too was never just about you

feeling like you’re in the fire
burning like charcoal under marshmallows
that enjoy getting toasty
but you, you become dust

the next day
were you even there in the first place?
seems like your efforts feel more invisible

every single day 
with a boulder sitting on your chest
weighing you down, it tells you:
oh no, you'll never make it out
better delay

but the more you delay
the heavier it becomes
and before you know it 
you’re 10th Street down

and you’re like: 
how did I get here? 
how did I lose sight of what was important?

and regret comes in and sit on you too
oh should have done something back then
back there, should have moved
...you missed your cue

yesterday 
you could have tried harder
that probably could have helped too
but was life actually easier back then?

all the things piling up
homework never submitted 
motivation turns into never
that adrenaline rush never kicks in
though you waited one more minute
till Next Semester

still maybe 
you feeling like you’re burning
is not a waste

then this June
everything got pieced together 
holding your niece
as she rubs her head on your chest 
listening to your heartbeat
you sing:
“Hold me now in the hands that created the heavens...”
you realized
that your life had burned 
for that moment

how could she hear your heartbeat 
if you was gone?
how could she feel the vibration of your voice
if you was taken?
...like you planned for 14 years

what if you had said life goodbye too early?
and didn't wait for Next Semester
for her to see you
for her to meet you

turns out that staying in life's fire 
had purpose after all
to see beyond words
to look at someone’s eyes and whisper:
I see you brother, sister
you’re carrying a lot too

maybe just maybe 
going through pain 
taught you how to see pain
how could you have recognized something
that you yourself haven’t 
lived through?

you waited till Next Semester
and nothing can pull you 
out of this uncertain season
with God your pain will never be in vain.

I wasn’t more than 8 and I was already a professional snooper. Guests would come over, and my siblings would be like, “Where’s Lynn?” But they already knew the answer.

I was crouched near the living room door, probably with a glass cup pressed against it for the best sound quality. Because what is this, “Leave the room so adults can talk”? Oh no, we’re people too. We need to know the tea.

And that day, what I overheard changed everything.

My mom had been diagnosed with cancer. She went through surgery and nearly two years of chemo in the Dominican Republic. Even though Haiti is on the same island, she couldn’t come home until doctors gave her clearance. 

They had once told her, “don’t think you’ll survive this.” But they were wrong, God completely healed her. When she got home, we were just so happy. And a couple of weeks later, some friends came by and said, “we knew someone who relapsed and died from this, even after chemo.” From the living room, I heard my mom reply:
“Why are you coming to my house to visit me and telling me this?
This has nothing to do with me or my story.”

Years later, she told us her spicy prayer to Jesus while in chemo: 
“I don’t think You gave me five kids just so they wouldn’t remember me. 
I don’t think You’ll let them be raised by another woman and never know 
what it feels like to be loved by their own mother.”

She wasn’t worried about who would take over her house. Not even her husband (lol). She was in pain, bald, missing an organ; still her prayer wasn’t about herself. 
It was about us. And that still gives me goosebumps.

That kind of courage doesn’t come out of nowhere. It made me wonder where she had learned to pray like that, to fight like that. The truth is, my mom’s fight was built on someone else’s grit. 

Borrowed from the woman who gave birth to her, but didn’t even get to raise her. My grandma, a go-getter. She used to ride in the back of construction trucks just to make a living, traveling from Jean Rabel to Port-de-Paix. Think North Miami Beach to Coral Gables, 30 miles one way. In the humid Miami heat, that’s just crazyyy.

She didn’t want her kids to just learn to read, since she never got the chance. She wanted them far from the Vodou spirituality she grew up around—so they’d know God. She sent them to live with her siblings in different cities. Even if it meant they’d call her by her first name instead of “Mom.”

Little did she know, my mom would find faith in one of those homes. Her sacrifice shaped my mom’s story. My mom’s story shaped mine. And when I think about it, their choices became the soil my life grew from. That’s why I can never wish for a different story.

Not a flawless journey where I was never bullied or battled depression. I just don't want that story. 
Because would I still be me? 
Would I still see the outcast standing by themselves? 
Would I still sense the heaviness someone carry in a room—just by their body language?

Maybe the wood in my ship was never meant to be polished. And if their courage could carry through generations, then mine isn’t wasted either. Your woods that look broken have purpose, too. Your courage isn't wasted either. 

That’s the upside-down way of Jesus. The courage to keep going, especially when it feels like you are at the end of yourself, is to let God meet you in your fear and still say, “Use me.” To see your scars, setbacks, insecurities and believe they hold purpose in His hands.

First, we are Invited. Maybe feeling like you’re carrying a lot is actually an invitation. To whisper, “This is hard,”  and still stay in it.

Then, we are Formed. Not every setback means you messed up. Some of it is God strengthening what will not break next time. And let’s be real it doesn’t feel deep. It just feels exhausting. But sometimes, weariness is proof you’ve been showing up.

And finally, Transformed. Not always with a big announcement. But like a seed planted under soil, in the dark. Then, when it’s time has come, nothing can stop it from growing. 

If your life feels hard right now, you don't  have to thrash your red tinted glasses.  Denying your emotions and situation. You can sit in the silence with Him to pray, cry and borrow courage to keep going from someone else's story.

How living in between requires trust
to believe there’s a greater reward
than the finite one

I tried doing it in my own strength
and these hands got burned
so the sky had shed a tear
for my rope-burned palms

here in my present
If I let go like you said
how will I protect my pride 
when I fall three feet down

but isn't that the whole point?
for me to yield it all to you 
hold You tight, not the rope itself

I don’t want to release my grip from You
don’t let me yield to this mountain
so towering in my short-sightedness
so immovable in my own striving

I want to wait well in everything, Lord
I want to make much of You
Your presence, Your words
already carved in my heart

I don’t want this to be a season
of grasping for fruit I crave
just to order my own world
reach and grab it

lead me to seek You first above all else
when nothing makes sense
when I feel like quicksand
is swallowing me whole

please don't go
You've never left me before
and I know You won't start now

don't let my strides outpace your vision
slow me down, Lord
help me stay still, yet faithful

If I move too fast or too much
I’m undone
It’ll be like pulling at threads
creating unnecessary entanglements

oh, how I long to always move
slowly and steady
with You.

The graduation pictures, right now, look so pretty. 
Some of them reach people that I don’t even know. And it seems like I’m living the dream. But that’s just the highlight reel. That journey was anything but pretty.

It's a dream in two: that I got to this finish line. But at the same time, it may be a dream to you because sometimes finishing what you start feels impossible.

This drive to finish didn’t come out of nowhere. I remember this story. I must have been 11 or 12 when a boy said girls weren’t as smart as boys. That made me so mad, a fire burning through my chest. For the first time in my life, I studied before a test, just to make sure I could rub it in his face. 

I ended up proving him wrong. And I was the only girl who finished top two in my 8th grade class. That moment felt like everything. But it didn’t take long to learn that life isn’t graded on middle school tests. Because we all know it’s one thing to prove a kid wrong when you’re a child yourself. It’s another thing to carry that same mentality into adulthood, living in a cycle of proving yourself to others, setting up bars for yourself so high that even you... can’t reach them.

And the truth is, it’s one thing to smile in victory when you see a grade, and another to collapse when you see D’s and F’s. Grades were my armor growing up. But failing grades couldn’t protect me in college — could they? 
They became whole seasons of my life. They came from days depression chained me to bed for weeks and months. Days when showering wasn’t even an option, let alone eating, or having enough energy to move and go to class.

I had to get my identity stripped from grades. I retook classes. I withdrew from others. My transcript never told the story of sleepless nights trying to catch up. Was I tempted to take shortcuts? Of course — and for a while I did. My 'good excuse', my brain wasn’t my friend. How could I solve engineering problems when I didn’t even want to breathe? But God was trying to teach me endurance.

It caught up to me that who you're becoming on the way to your goals matters more than how fast you get there. Just a little compromise here and there turn into a lifestyle. One where we keep trying to do it all by our own strength—to get the degree, job, awards, just to look good on paper.

I had to learn through delay—and delay that I didn't have to cut corners, push through alone. Neither do you. Jesus Himself said:
Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest (Matthew 11:28, NLT). God carried me when I couldn’t carry myself. He also put people on my path who encouraged to keep me going — like my program advisor, a strong woman of God. She would look me in the eye and say: 
“Girl, you’re almost there!”

Yes, they were hurdles. I couldn’t learn grit any other way. I couldn’t learn that I wasn’t in control any other way. I couldn’t learn to rely on God and not my strength any other way. I had to speak up for myself to professors.  And, file medical petitions with the university to clean up my transcript. That meant giving away personal things I wanted to keep private, medical details I never wanted to disclose. To be vulnerable like that felt as if I was naked in front of a stage everybody knew, except me.

Did I ever contemplate quitting? Of course. 
But how could I explain that to my parents, to my grandparents 
who sacrificed their knees just so I could stand, just so I could have an education?

I kept going. But I had to fight the enemy between my ears. He loved to whisper shame into my brain, that taking more than 4 years meant I was already a failure. 

The world never saw that fight. The world only sees the pictures now. And they sure do look pretty, but the journey isn’t there in that moment. I fought this disease with God for 14 years: seven years before college, and seven years while in college. And on my last year, I wasn’t depressed. November 2023 was the last month I swallowed an antidepressant to attend class and face life.

Yes, I may seem intimidating now. “Oh, she must be so smart. No wonder she studied this.” But the truth is, that's not the full picture. I chose this major because I was horrible at Math. Because depression said it was impossible to get it. In the end, that degree isn’t mine, it’s His.