It is 2 a.m. on Monday. I am jaded. Rest keeps eluding me. I have been a zombie since I had my baby boy 10 months ago. He does not sleep well, and has never slept more than four consecutive hours since the day he was born. My husband is asleep, peacefully, beside me. He snores like a bear, utterly oblivious that I am up for the second time since our baby went to sleep at 10 p.m.
I am exhausted. Totally debilitated. And I am blissfully happy. My life today is what I would call imperfectly perfect. It is the kind of life I never thought I deserved—a loving husband, a job I love and two beautiful children. It is ordinary, predictable and mildly chaotic.
Five years ago, I would never have dared to dream that I could be so fulfilled. I was perfectly broken, ever since I was a little child. My life had mostly been made up of pain, with glimpses of joy. Once, I asked God why my life was so painful. He did not answer.
I used to wonder what my life would be like if I had never tasted agony so early. Who would I be if they hadn’t sexually abused me before I could do multiplication? Where would I be if my father had been a present part of my childhood? What would I look like if body dysmorphia hadn’t raised its ugly head before I turned 10? How would I view marriage if I had not experienced physical abuse at the hands of my ex-husband? When would I have found myself if I had not spent so many years broken?
A gaping abyss
Five years ago, I was in a gaping abyss. I thought that would have been the end. I thought I would die in that place, and no one would realize I was dead. But I did not die in that abyss. Someone helped me save myself. She, too, was once broken. She once lived in that space.
I met her on a Tuesday after work. I was at home, lying on my bed, tears flowing from my eyes. I was shattered. Not only were my finances in shambles, but so was my current relationship. Every attempt I had made at happiness had failed. Every risk I took had backfired. Everyone I trusted had disappointed me. I was certain that my future would be as tragic as my past and present.
I switched on my computer, went to YouTube and typed in ‘broken,’ hoping to find a soundtrack for my pity party. I loved to throw pity parties back then. The top search result was a woman sharing her story of finding peace, healing and redemption after brokenness.
I hovered over the video for a bit. It was not what I was hoping to find. I was not looking for a lifejacket; I was looking for a pool in which I could drown my sorrows. However, I was curious about what she had to say. At best, it would be laughable. There could be no healing from a life that had been so painful. I wrestled with myself as I pressed play.
Within five minutes, I was bawling as I listened to this beautiful woman share her own story of brokenness, which involved childhood abuse, the loss of a child, multiple divorces, low self-worth, homelessness and poverty. I was awestruck. How was it possible that she was standing in front of this gigantic audience, telling this story, without breaking down? How was she smiling, even laughing about what she had endured?
Mending broken pieces
It was at that moment that she became my sister, my mother and my friend, as she cradled and encouraged me. I laughed and cried intermittently. With each word she spoke, I became stronger. I became more hopeful. I was comforted. I realized that my story was not over. I was so used to brokenness that I had expected to be broken my entire life.
From this woman, I learned that to have peace, I had to decide that I had the right to have peace in my life. I could choose to heal, just as she did. And I could choose joy, just as she did. I could get to a better place, even with my broken pieces. I do not know where I would be if I had not found this woman, if I had not heard her story.
After this encounter, I began to do the work I needed to do to rebuild my life. It was a slow and deliberate process of mending my broken pieces. I spent months evaluating my life, taking note of every wrong turn and every wrong decision I had ever made. I traced my family history and the familial curses I believe contributed to my pain.
I meditated, I prayed and then I decided that every action and every decision I made from that moment forward should serve my higher purpose. With much difficulty, I identified and cut off unhealthy relationships. I minimized and eventually eliminated destructive habits, like always putting everyone’s needs before mine and settling for less than I deserved in relationships.
My healing could not begin until I learned that it was OK to choose myself. I spent time with myself every single day, assessing the daily choices I made and ensuring that I honoured myself in all my affairs. And to make sure I followed through, I asked a true friend to keep me accountable.
Be for another
Within a few months, I started to heal. Within a few years, I had healed enough to share my story with others without breaking down. Today, I can laugh when I share my journey with others, just as my sister-friend did in that video.
Over the past few years, I have met so many women who are going through a period of brokenness; too many for it to be a coincidence. We have wept together. We have laughed together. We have grown together. We have healed together.
Once, I asked God why my life was so painful. He did not answer. I think I now know. Pain teaches us lessons that joy simply cannot. Pain challenges us to grow in enormous leaps. Pain makes us human and teaches us empathy. Pain makes us relatable. Pain brings out our greatest gifts.
I like to think that maybe the gift of my brokenness is to be able to show someone else that they can find redemption, too. Maybe one of the purposes of my pain is to be for another what that woman was for me so many years ago.
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