What’s wrong with me?
That’s the question we ask.
They say, “You’re not wrong. What happened wasn’t your fault.”
But deep down, we still feel it—
like maybe they’re wrong.
Like maybe we are.
It’s not about blame.
It’s about truth.
We are traumatized.
We were broken.
We were altered, distorted, stripped down to something we don’t recognize.
And over time, that pain turns inward.
It becomes internalized—
and then it becomes systemic.
A pattern.
A lens through which we see ourselves,
and sometimes how the world sees us too.
And that’s what feels wrong.
Trauma isn’t something we choose.
It’s not a person we invite into our lives.
It arrives uninvited. It takes. It scars.
They tell you: It wasn’t your fault.
What happened to you was not your choice.
They say: It doesn’t matter what you wore, said, did, or implied.
No one had the right to take advantage of you.
They remind you:
You are not to blame for the home you were raised in,
or for the wounds you didn’t cause.
They also say:
No one has the right to steal your voice.
No one gets to take your choice away.
You can learn to speak for yourself again.
To stand. To reclaim what was always yours.
Yes, we hear that.
And somewhere deep in the logic of our minds—maybe we even believe it.
But until someone truly feels what it’s like to be violated—
verbally, physically, psychologically, financially, emotionally, religiously, sexually—
those words fall like dust on wounded ears.
Because here’s the truth I offer—gently, and with respect:
You won’t reclaim who you were.
You won’t return to the voice you had before.
You won’t be that version of yourself again.
When you speak, your voice may tremble or rise.
When you live, it won’t feel the same as it did before it happened.
So let that old version go.
Don’t spend your strength trying to restore what was taken.
Let it burn.
Your former identity is gone.
You can’t reclaim your power.
They never say that.
Because the truth is…
you never had any power to begin with.
Now, you’re just trying to figure out who you are—
and nothing fits.
Nothing sticks.
There’s nowhere to put it.
No real place to lay it down.
Never fully healed.
Never healed?
What do you mean?
You fought hard—
therapy, resilience, years of clawing forward.
Yes. I did.
But here’s the truth:
You can heal…
just not on your own.
And I’m not just talking about having a support system—
family, friends, professionals, trauma groups, self-help books.
All of that matters.
It helps.
It soothes.
But it’s a salve.
Better than burying the pain,
but not the path that sets your soul free.
Because it comes back.
Even years later.
I still feel the details—
the fear.
the panic.
the racing thoughts.
That kind of terror settles in your bones.
Your body never forgets.
It keeps the score.
So what’s my point?
How do you heal your soul?
After what happened to me,
I didn’t feel clean.
Yes, I felt violated.
But even when I was safe again—
even when moments were better—
my body and mind stiffened.
In the back of my mind, something screamed:
This doesn’t feel right.
Even when there was nothing to fear.
No one talks about that part.
No one tells you what your soul feels like afterward.
How do you heal that?
I didn’t even know to ask the question.
I thought healing meant letting go.
Reclaiming power.
Moving on.
And maybe that’s part of it.
But I still didn’t feel whole.
So again I ask:
How do you heal your soul?
I had to look—
deep into myself.
Not into despair,
but into reckoning.
To gather the pieces of me
that were more than what was done to me.
Because my body found recovery.
My mind found some peace.
But in the quiet depths, where I didn’t want to look…
I had to face someone I thought was too raw,
too unclean—
myself.
People get uncomfortable when you talk about God.
Jesus. Faith.
Some get angry.
I used to.
It felt like letting go of independence,
like surrendering to something I didn’t fully understand.
I wanted control.
I thought that meant freedom.
But I missed something.
I misunderstood something.
And when I let go of the anger—
when I stopped pushing God away—
I finally saw what had always been reaching for me.
So let me tell you a story…
It started with Light.
Not the kind you see—
but the kind you feel.
A warmth. A pulse. A presence.
From that Light, a realm bloomed into being—
not chaotic or accidental,
but intentional. Precise. Masterfully crafted.
Mountains rose in silent majesty.
Oceans breathed in time with the wind.
Stars whispered secrets into velvet skies.
And at the center of it all…
the Creator watched.
But even perfection can feel hollow
when it’s only observed.
So He fashioned something bold—
living reflections of Himself.
He called them Images—
beings shaped in His likeness,
mirrors of His beauty and brilliance.
And to one Image,
He gave the breath of choice.
Not because He needed loyalty—
but because real love,
true, eternal love,
must be chosen.
He walked among them.
Delighted in them.
All was as it should be.
Until the jealous one returned.
Once radiant.
Once exalted.
He had basked in the Creator’s gaze.
But pride twisted him.
He didn’t want to serve.
He wanted to rule.
So he orchestrated a coup.
And he vowed he would not rebel alone.
From the shadows of the void,
he slithered forward with a wager:
“If Your Images are truly Yours,” he sneered,
“then prove it—
let Me have them.
If they’re as faithful as You claim, they won’t break.
But I will fracture them, tempt them—
and they will be Mine.
And if You want them back…
the price will cost You.”
The Creator said nothing.
When He gave His Images the gift of choice,
He vowed never to take it back.
Their will was sacred—
and so, the choice had to be theirs.
The deceiver wasn’t seeking truth.
He wanted leverage.
He wanted proof of a power he never truly held.
But that wasn’t the point.
This was his ransom note—
a cruel justification for the rebellion he’d already begun.
What he didn’t see
was that he was walking into a trap of his own making.
Because the Creator would not revoke their freedom.
He would let them choose—
even if it meant choosing wrong.
And when they did,
the ransom would be set:
their souls, held captive…
the price—unpayable.
Unless…
Unless the Creator Himself paid it.
To truly win,
He would have to allow the loss.
And so, the board was set.
The deceiver, ever cunning, used no new tactics.
He didn’t have to.
He whispered the old lie:
“You’re not free.”
“You’re being controlled.”
“Break the rule—and you’ll be like Him.”
The Image hesitated.
Then reached.
And in that moment,
their soul was stolen.
The Light didn’t vanish—
but they closed their eyes.
Shame entered.
Fear followed.
Distance was born.
Still, the Creator did not blot them out.
He did not abandon them.
Instead—
He initiated the plan He had never wanted to use,
but had always known He would.
He would not send wrath.
He would send a way.
He turned to His Son—
His most beloved,
the echo of His own heart.
“They’ve been taken from My grace,” He said.
“And they cannot return on their own.
They cannot afford the ransom.”
The Son felt His Father’s pain.
He knew the weight of His love for them.
Then the Father’s voice steadied with resolve.
“But I have made a way to bring them home.”
He looked to His Son.
“You are the One to save them.”
“Then I must go,” the Son replied, unwavering.
“But not in glory. Not yet.
You must enter in silence.
Live among them.
And when the time comes…
You’ll carry all they’ve done—
every defilement, every wound, every rebellion.
You’ll take it all.”
“Will it be enough?” the Son asked.
The Creator’s voice broke.
“It will shatter You.
And for a moment…
I’ll have to turn away.
But know that in You, I am well pleased.
Your sacrifice will have a purpose—
and it will be restored to glory.”
The Son stepped forward.
“Then I will not waste time.”
And so He went.
He chose a pure vessel—
a young woman with trembling hands
and a lion’s heart.
The Prince became a child
and entered the world—
not with armies,
but with blood and breath.
He walked the earth—
not with legions behind Him,
but with dust on His feet
and mercy in His hands.
He touched the untouchable.
He healed the broken.
He sat with the rejected.
He lifted the eyes of the ashamed.
And when He looked into their weary souls,
He didn’t scold them.
He didn’t shame them.
He knelt beside them and whispered:
“Come back.
This is not your home.
You were not made for this…
Your Father made you for more.”
But not all would listen.
The deceiver was still playing his game—
twisting truth,
turning love into weakness,
freedom into chains.
Corruption cloaked in power.
Then came the final move.
The Son was betrayed.
Beaten.
Crucified.
Not by mistake.
By design.
He became every sin.
Every scream.
Every shadow.
And when the weight was too great,
the heavens roared.
The earth cracked.
And the Creator turned His face—
not from His Son,
but from the uncleanliness His Son had willingly absorbed
to buy back His Images,
so they could be washed clean…
so they could shine again.
He paid the ransom the dark one demanded.
He paid it in full.
So they could be free.
But He would not force their return.
They must choose it—
willingly.
Gratefully.
Because love still must be chosen.
And the cost?
It meant He had to die.
The Son—
the Echo of His Father’s heart—
breathed His last.
The skies dimmed.
Hope trembled.
But three days later—
just before dawn pierced the silence—
the tomb split.
The stone rolled away.
And the Light… returned.
The Son rose.
And with Him—
a door.
Not a demand.
Not a trap.
But a rescue.
He made a way—
through blood and shadow,
through sacrifice and sorrow—
to bring them home.
So when I say therapy alone couldn’t heal me—
when I say there was something deeper than talk or touch or time—
this is what I mean.
My soul needed what only its Maker could mend.
You don’t have to believe me.
You don’t have to agree.
You can call it myth.
You can call it madness.
But I call it a gift. And I accepted it.
This story, truer than time—
it healed my soul.
And saved my life.
J.N. Rose 