Finding Faith in the Fire

Growing up, I was a good kid. I came from a small town, and even though I didn’t have a lot of friends, I didn’t need many because I had my big sister. Teirsa was my best friend. We did everything together. She would pick me up from school, and we would go to her house, and I would stay the night. We loved watching movies and going hiking. We always had so much fun together. It felt safe. Normal. Happy.

One night we were at her house with her husband, watching movies and making tacos like we always did. She dropped me off at home the next morning. That night, my mom got a phone call—and I’ll never forget the scream that came from her bedroom. I ran out to see what was wrong. She crumbled to her knees, trying to get the words out. “Your sister ... Teirsa ... passed away.” I was 13.

“Deep in all the mess, I kept a spark alive. I don’t know if it was faith. Maybe it was just stubbornness. Maybe it was the voice inside me that refused to let me die without ever knowing peace.”

That moment shattered everything. I had never lost anyone before, and suddenly I was grieving the person I loved most in the world. People would tell me, “It gets easier with time.” I clung to that. But it didn’t get easier. The only thing that got easier was hiding my pain.

I didn’t understand grief. I didn’t understand how much pain a person could carry while still pretending to be okay. Years later, I finally felt like I had rebuilt. I had a beautiful life, at least on the outside. I had a job I loved, a new car, my own place. I was content but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. I needed something to fill that void.

Unraveling

All it took was one bad decision. I started dating someone new. He told me he struggled with addiction, and I quickly got pulled into that world. I was innocent and naive. I had no idea how deeply drugs could consume a person. I became codependent. I never wanted to be away from him because I couldn’t stand the idea of being alone with myself and my thoughts.

Before long, my life unraveled before my eyes. Drugs were my only priority. I quit my job. My driver’s license was suspended. My car was repossessed. I lost all my belongings—furniture, clothes, family photos, items that held memories of my sister. What I once called home was now completely trashed. I lost everything I’d built and worked so hard for—within months.

I lost even more. I disconnected from family and lost custody of my kids. I stopped answering calls, stopped showing up, stopped caring whether I woke up the next day. I lost all hope.

Eventually, I got another car, but it was more shelter than transportation. I was still using, still hollow, still spiraling. My self-hatred was unbearable. I had failed everyone who believed in me—especially my kids. I felt so far from God I didn’t think I deserved to speak his name.

Life kept piling on. It started with wanting to numb the pain, to stop feeling everything so deeply. But pain took over. I had lost my home, the trust of people I loved, custody of my children. And I nearly lost myself.

Please Help Me

One night I was alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts. Everything hit me all at once—guilt, shame, and isolation. I felt like a ghost in my own life. And for the first time in years, I prayed. Not a fancy, perfect prayer. Just, “Please help me.” That was it. I wasn’t even sure who I was talking to, but something inside me felt heard. I felt something shift. Maybe not outside of me—not yet—but deep within.

Deep in all the mess, I kept a spark alive. I don’t know if it was faith. Maybe it was just stubbornness. Maybe it was the voice inside me that refused to let me die without ever knowing peace. That tiny spark that wouldn’t let me give up is what led me to prayer again. Not perfect prayer. Just real, broken, desperate words.

That’s when Daily Word entered my life. I don’t remember how I found it. I started reading it on my phone. At first it felt foreign—like the words were meant for someone stronger. But I kept reading. Eventually, it felt as if those messages were written just for me. They reminded me that grace isn’t for the perfect. Healing isn’t a onetime event. It’s a practice, a way of life. I leaned into something bigger than myself. Something loving. Some days I didn’t fully believe, but I read anyway. And slowly, I began to believe I was worth saving.

I began praying—even when it was short and messy. “Help me stay clean today.” “Please keep my kids safe.” “Give me strength not to give up.” Then I started reaching out—to support groups, to family, to counselors. I made amends. I stayed sober. I kept going.

Permission to Rebuild

The approach I found in Unity—simple, honest, inclusive—felt like permission to rebuild. I didn’t have to feel whole to be worthy. I didn’t need all the answers to start seeking peace. I wrote affirmations—in journals, on napkins, on my phone. I wrote, “This moment isn’t the end of your story.” “You’re stronger than you think.” Those little lifelines kept me going when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

Today, I’m still in recovery. I still struggle, but I face life differently now. I no longer crumble. I remember who walks with me. I don’t pray to escape life. I pray for the strength to live it. My faith isn’t perfect, but it’s alive. It’s real. And it’s mine.

If someone out there is in their fire right now, I want you to know the flame doesn’t have to destroy you. It can light the way forward. That little spark inside you? Hold onto it. Fan it gently. Let it grow. One breath, one prayer, one moment at a time. You are not alone. Even in the fire, grace is still with you.