I was raised on Sunday school wisdom,
and on sermons that said "give,"
said "love,"
said "empty your hands so God can fill them again."
But nobody taught me the art of receiving,
how to let kindness land,
how to believe I was worthy of the return flow,
how to hold a blessing without bracing for the next blow.
They promised giving would feel good eventually,
that love would circle back warm and certain.
But sometimes it felt like pouring water
into a cup with a crack I couldn’t see,
watching the level fall
no matter how faithfully I filled it.
No one warned me a heart can run dry.
That I can give until the echo at the bottom of the well
is louder than the love that used to live there.
That you can love until the truth hits,
I wasn't cherished,
I was convenient.
And the pain of realizing I had been had
was its own kind of sermon.
Healing comes slowly, like dawn through closed blinds.
You gather yourself, piece by shattered piece,
and then comes the question:
Can I do this again?
Scars remember even when the skin looks healed.
And fear is a shadow that knows your name.
Strength looks different now.
It sounds like “no,” spoken without a stutter.
It feels like choosing myself
without apology or explanation.
It’s knowing the difference
between a lesson learned
and a sentence served,
and refusing to mistake one for the other.
And then there’s the hardest truth,
realizing you were only a bump
in someone else’s long road,
a moment they sped over
on their way to someplace else.
While they were nothing more
than a passing lane in your journey,
a brief stretch of open space
before you found your way again.
I can look back now
without bitterness,
without rewriting the story
to make myself smarter.
No regrets,
just the quiet, steady knowing
that I gave what I had,
and next time,
I’ll give without losing myself.
wcd
