He Came for The Broken

My journey with faith hasn’t been smooth or simple–it’s been a long, painful, and often messy road. I didn’t grow up in a deeply Christian home. We went to church occasionally, but it wasn’t consistent, and it certainly wasn’t something we lived out at home. My dad often criticized the sermons and the pastors, and faith was treated more like a performance than a relationship. That environment shaped my view of God early on–distant, judgmental, and hard to trust.

My childhood was full of instability, emotional neglect, and trauma. There were nights filled with yelling, threats, and even police showing up at our door. By the time I was 15, my parents divorced–on my birthday–and the chaos escalated. I ran away from home after a violent argument, completely broken and unsure of who I was.

When I came back, I shut down emotionally. I became the “golden child” –quiet, compliant, always doing what I was told. But inside, I was drowning in pain, shame, and confusion. I hid behind good grades, people-pleasing, and silence, while secretly battling depression, addiction, and a deep sense of worthlessness.

Despite all that, God didn’t let go of me.

At 15, my mom made me start going to a high school youth group. I didn’t want to go, but I went anyway. And even though I didn’t fit in, and never really made close friends, something about that place gave me peace. The youth pastor and his wife were the first people to really see me and care without judgment. That experience planted a seed of faith in me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was enough to keep me going when I felt like giving up completely.

Still, after high school, I walked away from church. I tried to build a life that looked good on the outside–school, work, success–but underneath it all, I was just surviving. I used drinking, smoking, inappropriate content, and toxic habits to numb the pain. I wore different masks depending on who I was with, and I lost track of who I really was. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere–not at home, not at work, not even at church when I occasionally returned. I thought I was too far gone for grace.

But in 2022, I started coming back to faith. I joined a college community group and slowly opened up to my pastor about my struggles. That decision–though scary–was life-changing. I started journaling again, reading Scripture, and praying, even if it felt awkward or pointless at times. I’ve been free of certain addictions for over a year now. It hasn’t been perfect. I still have bad days, and sometimes I fall back into old habits. But I keep coming back to God, because I know He’s the only one who can truly heal me.

Jesus didn’t come for the perfect–He came for the broken, the lost, and the hurting. And that’s who I was. But now, I know I am also loved, redeemed, and made new in Him. My past doesn’t define me. My struggles don’t disqualify me. I still wrestle with shame, fear, and questions–but I’m learning to bring those things to God instead of hiding them.

This is still a journey. There’s still healing to be done, but I’m not walking it alone anymore. I have hope now. I have truth. And I have a God who never gave up on me–even when I gave up on myself. And because of that, I know He’s not done writing my story yet.