Trying to heal is hard but hate is not an option. Hear me though, it’s okay to hate the healing process.

There is a kind of betrayal that doesn’t just wound you, it rearranges you. I have survived chaos. I have survived abandonment. I have survived the kind of past that teaches you how to read a room before you learn to read words on a page. But I was not prepared for the ache of being wounded by people who speak the language of being safe, while choosing power over people. There is something uniquely disorienting about being harmed by those who talk about grace yet operate in self-protection instead of integrity. It makes you question your discernment. It makes you replay conversations, searching for where it shifted while seeking clarity. It makes you wonder if you were “too honest, too bold, too unwilling to participate in something your spirit knew was not right”.

What has been hardest is not only what was done, but the indifference that followed. When I found the courage to confront someone who hurt me and my children, I did not go publicly. I did not go with accusation. I went privately, believing in repair. I believed humility could mend misunderstanding. Instead, I walked away feeling as if I had handed them the knife. The intentional wounding hurt, but the disregard for my life and my family cut deeper, especially when “family” was and is the very mission being spoken about. It is one thing to be disagreed with. It is another to be dismissed as though your voice, your time, your care, and your sacrifices meant nothing.

Watching the applause continue has been its own quiet battle. I see the platforms. I see the praise. I see the language of goodness flowing publicly while my heart wrestles with what happened privately. It is difficult to reconcile visible applause with private harm. Bitterness does not come screaming; it whispers. “See? This is what happens when you tell the truth. They advance. You absorb the cost. Maybe you should learn to play the game.”

That is the war, not against them, but within myself.

I am not someone who avoids conflict for long. I believe in facing issues directly and with integrity. Perhaps that comes from being silenced for too long as a child. I would rather step into discomfort than live in misunderstanding. I want peace, but I believe peace requires honesty. Still, I am learning that not everyone values that kind of communication. Sometimes pressing in for clarity can unintentionally step into a battle someone else never intended to resolve.

The greatest danger is not what happened to me, it is who I become because of it. Bitterness feels powerful at first. It feels like armor. Unfortunately, I know armor well. I wore it as a child. I wore it when I was homeless after being strangled and beaten by someone who should have protected me. I wore it at sixteen when I became emancipated and bought my first home before most teenagers had a driver’s license. Armor helped me survive instability, addiction in my family, and the unpredictability of adults who were supposed to keep me safe. But armor also hardens. It numbs. It keeps people at a distance. I have not done years of counseling, education, spiritual growth, and reflection just to return to survival mode. That is a declaration.

What people often call bitterness is sometimes grief. Bitterness seeks to punish what hurt you. Grief simply mourns what was lost, the friendship, the potential partnership that once held promise, the collaboration that once felt like shared purpose. Bitterness hardens the heart; grief honors that something meaningful truly mattered. I am grieving the loss of trust. I am grieving the belief that what is preached publicly is practiced privately. I am grieving the hope that reconciliation would be welcomed. Learning that public favor is not proof of private character is painful, but it does not have to make me cynical. It can make me clear.

Boundaries are not bitterness. They are wisdom earned. I will not retaliate, but I will not re-enter unsafe spaces. I will not slander, but I will not overextend myself where there has been disregard. This is the vulnerable truth, I will not chase validation, even though the human part of me longs for someone to say, “That wasn’t right.” Sometimes maturity looks like restraint.

When comparison tries to take root, I remind myself what cannot be taken from me. No one can erase the fact that I refused to let my story end in victimhood and survival. No one can undo the degrees I earned, a Bachelor’s in Communication and a Master’s in Counseling and Human Development. No one can diminish the decades I have dedicated to walking alongside hurting youth and families. No one can take the rooms filled, the young voices that have whispered, “Your story makes me feel less alone.” No one can undo the generational cycles that stopped in my own home. No one can take my beautiful marriage, my amazing daughters, or the work done quietly when no one was cheering.

Success is not always loud. Sometimes success looks like integrity when compromise would be easier. Sometimes it looks like humility when pride would feel justified. Sometimes it looks like staying soft when you have every reason to harden.

I still find myself frustrated. I still feel weary at times. I am still healing. But I refuse to let bitterness narrate my future. My life has already proven that nothing is wasted, not homelessness, not trauma, not betrayal, not even this chapter. The same God who carried a wounded girl into stability, education, leadership, and purpose can carry me through this too. Sometimes, God CLEARLY sees the harm being done and he opens a door when you least expected it. One where you aren’t restarting, you’re shifting focus. He fulfills the desire of your heart to be in a safe work environment where you can, not just survive but you get to thrive. I am grateful.

I choose hope, not the fragile kind that depends on fairness, but the steady kind that trusts redemption is still at work. I choose peace that guards my heart without closing it. I choose to believe that what was meant to wound can become soil for growth. I can hate, or I can heal, and healing, though slow and sometimes uncomfortable, is lighter to carry.

Scars are not signs of weakness. They are proof of survival. I would rather carry scars from wars I fought with integrity than bitterness.

Heal me, God. Keep my heart soft. Let my story be marked not by injury, but by transformation, transparency, and trust.

❤️Stephanie