“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’” — C.S. Lewis
I still hesitate before pressing “publish.”
Even after all this time, after all these words spilled across pages and screens, the act of telling my story still catches in my throat. I hesitate—not because I don’t want to tell it, but because I know what happens when I do.
I know the quiet messages that will slip into my inbox, the ones that say, “I saw myself in your words.” I know the relief, the resonance, the unexpected companionship that comes from someone else recognising their own battle scars in my own. And I know the ones who will say nothing, but will sit with my words in their hands, weighing them carefully, deciding what to do with them.
And I know the ones who will turn away.
I have lost friendships to my honesty. And I have kept friendships by withholding it. By making my stories palatable, neat enough to be consumed without discomfort. I have shaped my words to be just raw enough to be heard, but not so raw that they wound.
Because what happens when you tell the truth?
What happens when you stop only speaking of the sunsets over the valley, the church choirs harmonising under the trees, the joy of seeing light dawn in someone’s eyes? When you stop telling only the beautiful parts of mission life and begin to talk about the fractures beneath?
What happens when you say: It was not always good. It was not always safe. And sometimes, the wounds came from the very people who should have held me close.
What happens when you admit that you are still carrying bruises from the hands of people who called you sister? When you say that you loved deeply, but you were not always loved well? That you wanted to believe in your calling, but the weight of it sometimes crushed you? That you believed in sacrifice, but you didn’t know it would be your own heart on the altar?
The risk of speaking is the risk of being unheard.
And yet, I keep speaking.
Because I am still waiting for the one voice that matters most to say, “I see you. I hear you. I’m sorry.”
Because I am still waiting for the redemption of these stories.
Or perhaps, I am still raging, and I am not quite redeemed yet.
But maybe that is part of it, too. Maybe not every story is wrapped up in a tidy bow, ready to be tied off with a quiet, holy conclusion. Maybe some stories are still burning. Maybe some stories are still being written in the ashes.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because in the telling, there is movement. And in the movement, there is healing. And in the healing—slow, unsteady, incomplete—there is hope.
So I will press “publish” again.
And I will trust that somewhere, someone will read these words and whisper, “What! You too?”And in that moment, neither of us will be alone.
Girl Kaleidoscope 