Today was my first day of group therapy.

I sat in a circle of strangers, each carrying their own pain, their own story, their own invisible weight. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My heart wouldn’t slow down. Every part of me wanted to run , to crawl back into the comfort of isolation, where at least the silence was familiar.

I kept wondering if I made the right decision.
If healing really starts here , in a room full of broken people trying to learn how to be whole again. I didn’t say much, just listened. Some stories hit so close to home I had to look down, afraid my eyes would give me away.


For so long, I believed my faith alone could carry me through the pain. But tonight, I finally admitted it isn’t enough right now. I need something more than silent prayers in the dark.

It hurts to say that out loud, but it’s the most honest I’ve been in a long time.

But as people began to speak, I felt their pain so deeply it wrapped around my own, like our griefs were tied together. For a moment, I wasn’t just carrying my hurt; I was carrying theirs too. It felt unbearable.

It’s strange , I felt more empathy for those strangers than for people I’ve known my entire life. Maybe because they weren’t pretending. Maybe because pain recognizes pain.

I kept praying silently, asking God why faith alone hasn’t been enough to hold me steady. I still believe He’s here, somewhere in the breaking. But tonight, it felt like I was drowning , and all I could do was whisper His name and hope he’s listening.