The strength within the pieces
I never used to think of myself as a strong person.
I used to think strength was loud.
Bold.
Unshakeable.
A fierce, fire-breathing force that storms into a room and changes everything.
My sister, now that woman, she was strong. She’d walk into the room, and immediately everyone knew that she had arrived.
I remember her walking into a bar, those 9-inch stilettos making her even taller than she already was.
But the truth is, while that is confidence, it is not necessarily strength. Truth is, that confidence could also be just another mask. A masquerade of bravado hiding fears, doubts, anxiety…
The thing is this, most of the strength that carried me through the worst, never looked like that.
It looked like a shaky inhale at 2 a.m., when the weight of the world pressed too heavily on my chest.
It looked like picking myself up from the bathroom floor at sunrise.
It looked like putting on my make-up and faking a smile.
It looked like facing the world when my heart felt like wet cement.
It looked like whispering, “Lord, just help me through the next ten minutes,” and somehow… He did.
It looked like forgiving myself for every detour I took just trying to feel okay.
It looked like quietly choosing not to go back to the places and people who once broke me.
No fireworks.
No applause.
Just a woman deciding — sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with tears —
“I will not quit on myself today.”
“I deserve better.”
“Strength isn’t what survived the breaking—
it’s what rose from it.”
Strength, I’ve learned, is rarely dramatic.
Most days, it’s steady.
Quiet.
Almost invisible.
And yet… it’s holy.
Because it has its breeding ground in the places we thought were dead.
In the ashes of what shattered us.
In the spaces where fear told us we wouldn’t survive.
In the tiny, stubborn belief that maybe—just maybe—this life wasn’t over and perhaps, God wasn’t done with us.
I didn’t recognize it then, but I see it now:
Every time I held myself together when I wanted to fall apart — strength.
Every time I walked away instead of begging to be chosen — strength.
Every time I stopped explaining myself to people committed to misunderstanding me — strength.
Every time I prayed when I didn’t feel God, but trusted Him anyway — strength.
The little girl in me learned early how to endure.
But the woman I’ve become is learning something different: that endurance isn’t the same as thriving.
That survival isn’t the full story.
That strength isn’t about how much I can hold —
it’s about Who holds me.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9
This life has shown me that the strongest parts of me aren’t the ones that stood tall —
but the ones that kneeled, surrendered, and whispered,
“Okay God. I can’t. But You can.”
These are the strength-filled pieces.
The ones forged in fire.
The ones God Himself breathed life into.
The ones that remind me:
I am not strong because I’ve never broken.
I am strong because, by His grace,
I’m still becoming.
