From Victim to Voice: Reclaiming Your Story
Close-up of an Egret Flying above a Marsh at Sunset> Pexels.com by Umashankar Arora
Over the past two weeks, I’ve been sharing the reflections that came after my son broke his leg back in May. At the time, people kept asking how we were doing. And I kept answering honestly: “It’s been hard. He’s in pain. I’m carrying a lot right now.” I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I was just telling the truth.
But I noticed something. Every time I said it out loud, that things were hard, that I was tired, that I felt stretched thin, I felt this subtle fear creeping in: Was I saying too much? Was I reinforcing something I didn’t want to keep living in? Was I slipping into self-pity… just by being honest?
I didn’t want to pretend I was strong anymore. But I also didn’t want to say something about myself that would keep me down. And that’s where this whole internal struggle began.
The Invisible Prison of Positive Thinking
There’s an unspoken rule floating around (especially in Christian spaces) that once you’ve surrendered your life to God, things shouldn’t feel heavy anymore. You’re supposed to have joy. You’re supposed to have peace. You’re supposed to say, “It’s hard… but God is good!” and smile, as if that settles everything.
And sometimes that’s true, but it’s not always honest.
The Exhausting Religion of Fake Smiles
Sometimes you’re walking with God, trusting Him deeply, and still feel tired, disappointed, or sad. And saying that out loud feels… wrong. Like it’s unspiritual. Like you’re speaking death over your life instead of victory.
But here’s the thing no one tells you: suppressing your sadness isn’t the same as walking in faith.
Faith doesn’t require an upbeat, palpable response. Faith says, “Even here, even in this, I will still come to You.” Even when I feel down. Even when I don’t have the answers yet. Even when it doesn’t look victorious.
The Slippery Slope from Truth to Trap
So, here’s the tension I kept feeling: How do I know when I’m being honest… and when I’ve started slipping into victimhood?
Because it’s subtle. One minute you’re being real. The next, you’re rehearsing pain on repeat. One minute you’re in surrender. The next, you’re in self-pity, and you didn’t even see it happen. I’ve started asking myself: Am I letting God into this or just looping the story without Him?
When Wounds Become Your Identity Card
Victimhood isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it’s just lingering too long in what hurt you. Or building a home in the thing God wants to lead you through.
And here’s the kicker: victimhood can sometimes feel comforting in a weird way. It gives you something to blame, it gives you language, identity, even community. But it doesn’t bring peace. That only comes when the truth is brought to God.
How to Speak Your Pain Without Speaking Your Fate
I used to think surrender meant shoving down my feelings. Like if I really trusted God, I wouldn’t talk about what hurt. I’d just smile, pray, and move on. But that’s not godly, that’s suppression.
Real surrender names the truth. It sounds like, “God, I don’t like this… but I still trust You.” It sounds like, “I feel forgotten… but I know I’m not.” It sounds like, “This hurts… but I’m not giving it the final word.” And, it can even sound like, “I wish you’d remove that person from my life or give them what they deserve because I can’t take it anymore, but I trust in your will and justice.”
Victimhood tells your pain as a story of finality. Surrender tells your pain in the presence of God and lets Him shape what comes next. And the more I lean into that, into just telling Him the truth without restraint, the more I find myself anchored.
Because now, I’m not just talking to myself. I’m talking to Father God who can actually do something with what I’m carrying.
When Your Ending Becomes Your Beginning
So, here’s what I’m learning: You can name what’s hard without bowing to it. You can be honest about the struggle and still live in hope. I don’t have to hide my emotions from God and I can trust Him to bring healing.
Honesty doesn’t have to lead to victimhood, because when you tell the truth in His presence, something shifts. You stop rehearsing the wound. You stop needing to defend your sadness. And you let go of the identity you built around pain.
And you start hearing His voice in the middle of it: “I see you. I got you. Let’s walk out through this together.” So no, you don’t have to pretend you’re okay, and you don’t have to stay where you are. There’s a way forward that doesn’t skip grief… but also doesn’t glorify it.
It’s good to tell the truth. It can be the first step toward freedom.
If this post resonated with you, you may enjoy these posts as well: The White Dog and the Expiration Date of Endurance and The Unexpected Gift of Falling Apart
